


In Your Dreams

by wickness



Category: Gotham (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 53,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5509862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickness/pseuds/wickness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harvey's old flame is back in Gotham. And back in his own precinct.  With  the battleaxe back in the picture, Jim ordered into mandated counseling, new orders from the Cap, and a murderer on the streets, it'll be a miracle if they're not all in the nuthouse before they're through.  ... Only in Gotham.</p><p>I love Harvey & Jim and their (obvious) bromance.  I've been waiting for a love interest to come along for Harvey and stick, and with none in sight, I had to take matters into my own hands.  I hope you enjoy!  Reviews are always welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reflections

Thanks for checking this out! I don’t own Gotham or Batman or any of the other amazing characters therein. But man, do I love to play in their sandbox. Hope you enjoy.

(x)

5 years ago  
Gotham City

“So what brings you here, Mrs.-?”

“As I said, no names can be spoken. Not when you tape your sessions.”

“Right. No, I’m sorry. You did say that. So, what brings you here today?”

“Let’s see. I work raising funds to give the poor and sick children of Gotham food, homes, a better start, maybe even a better life. At first, I just worked on the financial side of things, but about a year ago I decided that I want to take a more active role. I went out into the homes where we were rescuing the children. They lived in crack dens and brothels and worse, if you can imagine it.”

“That takes guts, you know, and commitment to face something like that. You must care for them deeply.”

“Yes, of course.”

“But... you’re talking about it like you still haven’t told me the worst part.”

“The worst part was that the children didn’t want to leave, even though their parents were drug addicts and abusive and sometimes even murderers. The children didn’t hate them. They hated us. Because we were ripping them out of the arms of the only family they’d ever known.”

“Would horrifying be a good word to describe it?”

“Yes.”

“Right, but I think it’s worse than that. I think what you saw was the stuff of nightmares.”

“Well, yes. That’s actually the reason I’m here.”

“I read in the paperwork that you have a spouse and you both have a child together. Does your family show up in your nightmares, too?”

Her voice didn’t betray her, but her face held tears. “Yes.”

The doctor said, “So you watch what crime and abuse does to the children of Gotham. Then, you fall asleep at night and the same atrocities take place in your dreams. Except they happen to those you love most.”

“What can I do? How do I make it stop?”

The doctor pointed in one sweeping motion to the walls and floor of the office before making eye contact once more. “That’s what this is. Here. We make it stop in here.”

“How?”

“By meeting here. Weekly. Talking about the trauma gives it less power. We’ll work to make the monsters go away together.”

(x)

Present Day  
Gotham City

 

Jim sat at his desk, looking over paperwork, when a brown paper bag dropped down in front of his face. He blinked and looked up into the face of his partner. “Good morning.”

“Got you breakfast, honey,” he sang. Harvey sunk down into his swivel chair with his own breakfast sandwich across from Jim.

“Didn’t you hear? I’m taken.”

“Could you be a little more homophobic, please? You’re wearing the same clothes you had on yesterday. I figured you could use a pick-me-up.”

Jim sat back in his chair. He reluctantly set aside his paperwork and inspected the contents of the paper bag. Bacon, egg, and cheese with ketchup on the side. His partner knew him well. He took out the sandwich and glanced at Harvey. “You’re up early.”

“What can I say? I love the smell of car exhaust, sewage, and hangovers in the morning.”

Jim smirked in response.

Harvey asked, “So the all-nighter? Did it pay off?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out later. I’m still workin’ it. Everybody who knew Jamar Torres said he had a drug problem, but none of them believed he’d take heavy drugs while he was on the job.”

“An addict is an addict is an addict. It’s not like they clock out from their habit like they clock out at work.”

“I’d agree with you, but Torres goes from having a clean driving record to all of a sudden plowing his truck through not one but two freestanding homes. Now why would he do that?”

“Last time I checked the only reason someone goes on a joy ride through a couple of Cape Cods? ‘Cause they get lit up like a freakin’ Christmas tree on a whole lotta drugs. Which he did.”

“It’s interesting you say that , ‘cause forensics still can’t figure out exactly what was in that cocktail he took.”

“Lee? She can’t figure it out?”

“Not yet.”

“I get that you’re doing the Jim Gordon due diligence dance routine.” Harvey leaned forward. “But look it, Jim. Ever since this whole Gallivan thing went down, you’ve been picking through every case, every suspect, every piece of evidence that comes across your desk with a fine tooth comb. Sometimes things are connected. A lot of times they just aren’t. If you’re looking for some deeper narrative in every case comes across our desk, you ain’t gonna find it. All you’re gonna do is lose your grip on reality and fast.”

“Now I’m really in trouble.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“Because what you just said made perfect sense.”

Harvey stood up and clapped him on the back. “You’re damn right it did.”

Jim stood up resolutely. “But I’m still not convinced that truck driver knew what drugs he was taking, even if for some reason he did decide to take them on the job.”

Harvey’s shoulders dropped. “Should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.”

Jim picked up the file off his desk. “I think I’m gonna run it past this consulting forensic psychologist they got upstairs. See what she thinks.”

“What forensic psychologist?”

“Madeline Scott. She had a practice here in Gotham years ago.”

Harvey frowned. “Yeah, I know that. How do you know that?”

“She just signed on. Barnes sent out a memo about it yesterday. Don’t you check your mailbox?”

“I think I did once, right after they said, ‘Welcome on board’ and handed me my badge.” He got back to the matter at hand quick. “So what are you saying? She’s here? Now? In this precinct?”

“They’ve got her set up in the conference room.” Jim looked at his partner oddly. “Harvey. Wait a minute. What aren’t you telling me?”

Harvey muttered something about ‘here in my house’ and stormed up the steps.

Jim turned half a face to his retreating partner and called to him in a warning tone. “Harvey…” The man didn’t even flinch. “Harvey!” Jim breathed out a sigh and chased after his partner. Whatever he was about to do, Jim already knew from experience that Captain Barnes had put brass on suspension for less.


	2. Don't Ask Me

Present Day  
Gotham City

Detective Harvey Bullock shot up the stairs and threw open the door of the conference room.

“But you’re not looking at what motivates-” Dr. Madeline Scott stopped mid-sentence and glanced up from her paperwork. She looked at Harvey, blinked, and drew in a breath.

He took the opening. He faced the cop standing across from her. “You, rookie.” He made a fist and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Am-scray.”

The rookie must have realized that he wanted no part of what was about to go down and said, “We’ll talk later, ma’am.”

Harvey called after him. “What’s your name, rook?”

“Ellis, sir.”

“You’re a smart kid, Ellis. You got potential here.”

After the rookie high-tailed it out of there, Harvey looked down on all five foot nothing of her, dressed all smart in earth tones like she generally preferred. Still had the red hair, but it had darkened over the years, like the embers of a cigar burning their way down. Still had the librarian glasses, yet still mastered that calm look of condescension when she wanted to, like right now for example.

Madeline released a sigh. “Hello, Harvey.”

“Hello!” he exclaimed in a way usually saved for phrases like ‘Eureka’ and ‘Mazel Tov.’ “See, it’s not that hard to say. All you gotta do is put that together with dialing a phone, and you’ll be in business.”

She set aside her papers, keeping her tone soft and even. “Okay, so that’s the reason you barged in here like this? To have it out with me?”

“No time like the present. Don’t you think?”

“We’ve both got plenty to say,” she said. “But not now. Not today. I’m just getting started here-”

“Yeah, I’ve no doubt. Thanks for the heads up, by the way. I really appreciate the professional courtesy.”

Her voice darkened. “Look, if you don’t mind, I’ve got enough to handle without having to deal with you and your untreated jackassitis.”

“Is that your final diagnosis, doctor? What’s next? ‘Patient is a wackadoodle who suffers from having a screw loose’?”

She stayed silent for a moment and opened up her hands. “If you have an issue with me being here, you’re talking to the wrong person. Your captain is the one who hired me.”

“Let me ask you this. What precinct did you request? Did you say ‘maybe I’ll check out the 22nd downtown? Or hey, maybe set me up by the docks out there by the 15th?’”

She looked at him over her glasses. “It’s not like they gave me my choice, Harvey.”

“It’s not like they pinned up a map of Gotham and handed you a dart either.”

Madeline Scott raised her eyebrows. “What am I supposed to say here? That I’m not happy to see you?”

Harvey shook his head. His voice turned less harsh, not soft, just careworn. “What’re you doin’ here, Maddie?”

“I’m back in Gotham to promote my book. I let the bureau know I’d be available for consulting, and they requested my services.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that’s the only reason you’re back here.”

"I’d tell you the truth …” Now her voice sounded careworn. “But you probably wouldn't want to hear it.”

When he looked back at her, some of the energy drained from his face. “You know what the hell of it is? You’re right.”

“Well, there’s two words I never thought I’d hear you say.”

At the jibe, some of his rancor returned. He geared up and then froze mid-comeback as Captain Barnes walked up to them. “Detective Bullock. I see you’ve come across our new consult.” He looked in on Madeline and back at Harvey. “From what I understand, you two know each other. We’re not gonna have a problem here, are we?”

Harvey never took his eyes off Madeline. “No, problem here, Cap’. Just catchin’ up on old times.”

He’d already turned to leave when she called back, “You look good, Harvey.” He stopped in his tracks, cursing her under his breath. She would throw that in there. Knowing that time changed a lot, but not the way she wore that shirt high enough for government work and low enough for imagination. Harvey went ahead and added that thought to the ever-growing list of things he wished wasn’t happening that day.

Jim ran up and caught him by the arm. “Hey. What was that back there? You okay?”

“I’ll be okay once we fleece out some locals who can dish out the dirt on this trucker-drugging scumbag of yours.”

Jim lowered his gaze, as this was the exact opposite of what Harvey had said exactly .5 minutes ago. “What about the fine tooth comb? Things that aren’t connected? Me losing my grip on reality?”

“Yeah, screw that. We gotta find this asshole. I need a punching bag.”

(x)

Jim turned to follow his partner, still acclimating himself to the case’s shiny new direction, when he heard Captain Barnes’ voice boom behind him. “Gordon! Would you mind joining me over here, please?”

The request was not one. Jim stepped inside the conference room. Captain Barnes said, “Get the door, will you?” He obliged and the Captain continued, “Jim Gordon, this is Dr. Madeline Scott. She’s here to update our profiles on the main threats to Gotham City wherever possible. Madeline Scott. Jim Gordon. One of our best.”

Jim tried to pretend he hadn’t just heard his partner read her the Riot Act. He shook her hand. “Doctor. Nice to meet you.”

She nodded. “The same.”

Captain Barnes skipped a beat and then continued, “You’ll be working with Dr. Scott on a number of cases. But that’s not why I called you in to talk.”

Jim frowned. “...Sir?”

“Dr. Scott will be providing counseling services to some of our staff. I want you to see her for counseling, too.”

“You want me to attend therapy?”

“Yes, I do.”

Jim sent an uncomfortable stare to Dr. Scott and then turned back to Barnes. “Could we talk about this for a moment in private, sir?”

Dr. Scott began to say, “That’s fine-”

“No,” Barnes said with finality. “You have your orders.”

“Sir,” Jim continued. “If my job performance here has been anything less than satisfactory, I might understand where this is coming from, but-”

“Jim.” Barnes leveled with him. “It’s not that you’re not working at one hundred percent. But we keep calling you out to the front lines, and when we don’t, you basically demand to be there anyway. No one, not even me, can operate like a well-oiled machine under that kind of pressure.” He then lowered his voice. It was one of the only times in recent memory that the Captain didn’t sound like he was speaking on a public address system. “I don’t want to lose you. If I don’t take advantage of every resource I have at my disposal, then if something goes haywire, it’ll be on me. So it’s final. You’re going.”

Jim challenged him. “And if I don’t?”

Captain Barnes said, “I already told you I don’t want to lose you. But a man who won’t obey orders from his superior? That’s not a loss to me. Not even if it’s you.”

Jim watched as Captain Barnes left the room and returned back to his office. 

At the same time, Dr. Scott addressed him, “Detective Gordon?”

He managed a tentative smile. “Jim.”

“Madeline,” she said in reply. “I’ve been seeing police officers in therapy for some time now. But with everything Captain Barnes, he was wrong about one thing.”

Jim’s stare asked the question for him.

Madeline said, “You work day and night. You operate cleanly and efficiently ‘round the clock. But you’re not a machine. You’re a person. Even if you haven’t been keeping tabs of every dead body, every heinous crime, every loss you’ve suffered second-hand or first, your body has been. The numbers add up, whether we want them to or not.”

Jim took a breath and said, “You and Harvey Bullock aren’t strangers. He’s my partner. Doesn’t that make me seeing you for therapy a conflict of interest?”

“You could play that card if you want to with your captain, but I wouldn’t.” She stood up and let out a relaxed sigh. “My advice? If you really want to make Barnes drop this?”

Jim answered dryly, “What’s that?”

She handed him a card with a location, date, and time written in. “Go to the session. Either that or come up with a way to make your not coming to counseling his idea. Whatever you can swing by 9:00 a.m. tomorrow.”

Her heels clip-clopped away from him. “Yeah,” he said, staring down at the card. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I know it’s early. I’ll bring the coffee.”

Jim held back a sigh as he slid the card into his wallet. With that, he went to go find Harvey. All of a sudden he realized he wouldn’t mind talking about this with a suitable punching bag either.

(x)

A lone driver sat in a dark blue van across the street from his mark’s place of business. On the other side of his window, steam curled into the air from an open vent in the sidewalk. Women and men who wore their nasty histories on their faces and in their voices ambled past, paying him no mind. Just another of the million vehicles that parked in this city at any given moment. He brushed his thumb against the stubble on his chin. He’d been working so diligently that sometimes the length of his beard was the most reliable reminder of time passing.

He flinched as his phone rang from the seat next to him. He felt a swell of anxiety as he looked down at the number. Finally, he answered. “Hello.”

A voice said, “Dr. Moon, I believe I gave clear instructions that all experiments were to take place in house. I’ve also been equally clear about what happens to those who do not follow protocol.”

“You were shutting down the project.” By shutting down he meant ‘trying to disappear’ and by ‘the project’ he meant himself. He whispered, pleading, “I’m so close to finding the exact dosage. All I need is a little more time.”

“At one point I may have entertained that request. That time has passed.”

He drew in a noisy breath and said, “I found subjects...almost all the subjects I need.”

“How exactly did you go about that?”

“It took some effort, to hack into the computer systems. But…” He laughed without humor, only exhaustion. “I’ve discovered firsthand that desperation procures the fastest results.”

“Be that as it may,” he said. “Now that I know your intentions, you can consider this study… completed.”

“Not at all. It’s just started. The experiment is already in motion.”

“Does this mean that you’ve already distributed your drug out into the community?”

“Yes.” His mouth felt dry as cotton. “Yes, I have.”

“A bold move, doctor,” he said.

“Fortune favors the bold.”

“And what about failure? Who does that favor?”

Dr. Moon tried to swallow his fear. “I’m fixing the mistakes I’ve made in the past. I know I can produce the results you want, outside the lab, in real time. Failure is a lesson, if we learn from it.”

“Or it can be our coffin, if we don’t,” He said, “Seeing as how you’ve forced my hand, we now have no choice but to let science answer the question for us.” He took a deep breath and said, “So tell me. What’s your endgame, doctor?”

“Same as it’s always been. The achievement of progress. No matter what the cost.”

The man on the other end of the line paused and said, “Should this experiment go as well as you hope, we will be very happy with your performance.”

Dr. Moon ended the call, hearing only the converse. Screw this up, and we will be very unhappy with your performance. He scratched his beard and did the only thing he could do. He waited.


	3. Ain't No Rest for the Wicked

Present Day

Gotham City

Along with a number of skills in his wheelhouse, Harvey Bullock had a set of pipes, and today they were getting a workout. If he wasn't sweet-talking the ladies on the corner he was rounding up the dirtbags on parole, keeping them ever focused on the threat of being tossed in jail if they didn't tell him what he wanted to hear. Pronto.

Typically, Jim Gordon could only just barely tolerate his partner's investigation tactic of choice, but today, he was colored impressed. Whatever had gotten stuck in Harvey's craw wasn't getting unstuck anytime soon. The man gave new definition to putting the streets to work.

At the moment, that entailed running after one Mickey Sikes. He and Harvey could typically catch parole violators without much hassle. But this guy knew he was dead meat, so he ran and FAST. Down alleyways, up side roads, through a restaurant kitchen, and finally inside the back entrance of a strip club.

Mickey worked fast, but Jim worked smart. He caught him off at the pass by bursting in through the side door, badge and gun drawn. Gun pressed outward, Jim cornered him. "Back it up, Sikes. Don't make this any harder on yourself."

A moment later Harvey rounded the corner and grabbed Mickey by the back of his shirt. The guy flailed his fists wildly in an attempt to get in a solid punch. With a grunt, Harvey yanked him forward and slammed Mickey's head against a window pane, just hard enough to shatter it.

"That!" Harvey yelled, engaging those pipes. "Is for making me run."

Mickey let off a surprised cry of pain, shaking the glass out of his hair. "Police brutality, that's what this is. You think you cops can do whatever you want, but I got rights."

Harvey rolled his eyes, bored. "I've already heard that song. Sing me a new one, and I might forget that I saw those stolen laptops in the backseat of your stolen car. Ever hear of keeping a low profile?" When Mickey didn't immediately answer, Harvey shouted, "No? You've got five laptops. Look it up!"

Jim stood vigilant, just a few inches off of his partner. Then he moved carefully out of the way as three young, scantily clad women walked past, sporting big fake eyelashes, string bikinis, and high heels.

Harvey's face and body language instantly softened. "Hello, ladies. Excuse us. Pardon the interruption."

One of the girls waved back, friendly-like, before throwing back the red velvet curtains and walking up to the stage. An announcer called, "Let's give it up for the beautiful, Peaches, gentlemen!"

Mickey chewed his lip. The wheels turned slowly, but he was thinking. "Look, I have no idea..."

Harvey bore down on him. "I haven't even asked you what we're looking for yet, you sleazy punk!" He turned to his partner. "What do you think, Jim? Think I'm wasting my breath? Think I should haul his ass downtown?"

Jim shrugged, as if commenting on a predictable sports event. "I think it might cheer you up." He shared with Mickey, "He's havin' a bad day."

Harvey nodded. "Yeah, I am having a bad day. A nice clean arrest on the books might be just the ticket-"

"No, wait, I..I know things." Mickey struggled to string sentences together. Jim wondered if putting the guy's head through a window might negatively affect the quality of information they received. "What do you need to know? C'mon, just ask me."

Harvey grabbed him by the collar. "We need the dirt on a new drug out on the streets. Might be gettin' slipped to someone when they're not lookin'. Makes them lose their mind, do things they'd never do under any circumstance. Any of that ring a bell?"

Mickey said, "Sounds like a drug already out there. They got all different types to scratch that itch."

"No, see now you're not listening. I said a NEW drug. I'm lookin' for one that hasn't been in circulation until only just recently, like yesterday recently. Something nobody's heard of, 'cept maybe a no-talent clown like you."

"I… I think I might have heard something about one guy who was selling drugs, but now he's not selling drugs." He brightened. "But he might start again up selling drugs-"

"Wrong answer, Mickey." Harvey's voice became deceptively quiet, like he was talking to a small child. "You better wrack what brains you have for the right answer, or else your kidneys are gonna hear about it."

Jim ran a hand down his face. This was getting them nowhere. When he lifted his hand, he blinked as he saw a nearly nude woman walking right up to them.

A blonde with a purple feathered boa and not much else called over, "Hey, Harvey."

He turned half a face. "Aw, the lovely, the talented Destiny. How you doin', baby? Trust me when I say that I will drop almost anything to catch your show." His white knuckle grip on the perp never flinched. "But you mind giving us a minute, sweetheart? I'm just having a conversation with my pal over here."

She tilted her head, interested. "Did I overhear you say something about a new drug dealer?"

Harvey turned his full attention. "I don't know, honey. What you got for me?"

She popped her gum. "Oh, you know, Louie the Lip, Frankie Fists, the Penguin. There's no order any more ever since Fish left town."

"Tell me about it. Every time I turn around there's someone else comin' up trying to be crown prince of the scumbags."

Destiny added, "Or leaving town."

Harvey released his grip on Mickey and handed him off to Jim, not unlike how he might hang up his coat at the end of the day. "What'd'ya mean 'leavin' town?"

Destiny leaned in. "They're leaving town, just not the city limits."

Jim understood the code for 'left town' by now. The phrase held new meaning in Gotham. Could have "left town" into a John Doe body bag, took one too many in the teeth, or got fitted for his last pair of brand new cement boots.

She added, "It's got some girls around here scared."

Harvey said, "You don't say. Why don't you tell me a little more? Let me help you ladies out, if I can."

Meanwhile, Mickey inched to the side, looking like he was either trying to steal second base or make a break for it. Jim clamped down on his shoulder, saying, "Just don't."

Destiny said, "Somebody goes into the hospital for something. Or sees someone a little less licensed for medical help? They don't come back."

Harvey asked, "And where are all these people really going to?"

"That's the thing," Destiny said. "Nobody knows."

Harvey half-smiled. "Darlin', hear this. Somebody always knows." He pinned a couple crisp twenty dollar bills in the side of her G-String. "Thanks for the tip. Here's something to put towards your college fund."

She shared a look with him as she turned to go on stage. "I always do."

Harvey called after her. "You're a lady and a scholar!" He whistled to an aging, short bald man wearing a tattered business suit. "Hey, Sergei. Sorry about the window. Couldn't be helped. Casualty of war."

Sergei looked over and said in a heavy Slavic accent, "Forget the window. You keep coming when I have the no-pay-watch-girls-all-day customer. That's all I need."

"You got it, boss. I'll be back here on Friday." Harvey looked back to Jim, who just finished slapping cuffs on Mickey.

Harvey nodded his approval. "You got him? Good. Let's get the hell outta here."

"You feelin' better?" Jim asked.

"I'd feel better if for once we could get a tip that fits a case we already have." He did say, "But I'm getting there."

He might have gotten there, too, if Jim hadn't taken a phone call right after they secured Mickey in the back of the squad car. It was the Captain. "Jim, I need you two on site at a crime scene at Gotham General."

Jim frowned. "The hospital? What happened?"

"Just got a report on a local EMT. He grabbed up a scalpel and started cutting into anyone in the hospital who crossed his path. Nothing's confirmed yet, but we think he might have been slipped the same drug as your deceased truck driver."

"What makes you think that?"

"Just like the impact wasn't what killed the driver, the knife fight didn't kill the EMT. He dropped dead of unknown causes before anyone could take him down."


	4. If You Want Blood (You Got It)

Jim stood in the very center of the crime scene left in the wake of the knife-wielding EMT, surveying every part of the damage. Blood dotted and smeared the once pristine white tiled floor. Next door in the emergency room, medical staff treated the survivors and witnesses reported their testimony.

Harvey walked back from the ER through the industrial-strength sliding doors, pen and notepad in hand. "Kim Yanagi worked here for fifteen years, and according to what witnesses are saying, something, nobody knows what, but something about today made Kim stand up from his desk and say 'you know, I've tried a lot of things in my life, but knifing my co-workers hasn't been one of 'em.'"

Jim walked towards the EMT's station area and pointed. "They say that he was sitting here, putting in his notes like he always did, when he just stood up…"

"And turned all Jack the Ripper on the place."

Jim's brow furrowed. "How many?"

"Two," Harvey said. "One orderly and another fellow EMT tried to stop him."

"And they paid with it with their lives."

"Poor bastards bled out in seconds." He said, "You know, I've talked to these people. It's the same exact story as the trucker. 'Never would hurt a fly.' 'Had some problems, but nothing like this.' Just woke up, got into work, and went postal on the place."

"No prior acts of aggression either. At least nothing on the books with us."

Harvey looked around, his face weary. "Don't make no sense. Good news is the rest of 'em were only a few feet from the ER when it happened. If it this went down anywhere else? We'd be looking at a way higher body count."

Jim’s raise of his eyebrows came with a short nod. "Once forensics clears it, we'll dig through every piece of evidence in that station room and his locker. Then we'll talk to Lee. See if she found anything in Yanagi's blood sample to shed some light on how much of this is the drug and how much of this is killer instinct."

"If there even is a drug."

Jim nodded, giving him that.

Harvey said, "We better make something stick. I don't need Captain Tightass making life any harder than he already is."

Jim cleared his throat. "Since you mention it, Barnes called me in before we left this morning for a talk with Dr. Scott."

Harvey breathed a 'hmph'. "Oh yeah? What'd the battleaxe have to say?"

"It wasn't what she said. It was what Barnes said. I'm to report to mandated counseling sessions starting tomorrow."

"Cut the crap. You're kidding me." Harvey and Jim started to pick up speed as they walked back to the squad car. When Jim didn't correct him, he added, "I always said you needed professional help. I just didn't figure anyone was listening."

"Hopefully we'll find something that makes this case more of an immediate concern than my mental health. That'll make this session coming up the last one I go to."

Harvey arched an eyebrow as if to say '...the hell?' "Whoa, wait a minute. Please tell me that you're not actually thinking about going along with this counseling crap."

"Captain's orders," Jim said, opening his arms. "I didn't come this far to lose my badge over a few counseling sessions."

Harvey said, "I call bullshit. If he was gonna make your ass grass, he'd have done it months ago."

Jim narrowed his eyes at his partner. "So that's your advice. Call his bluff."

"I said it. You heard it."

"I could remind you of the end result of all the times you've given me that advice before. But I don't think you'd like it."

"Save it. If I wanna hear about the past, I'll turn on the History Channel." Harvey kept thinking and came up with, "What about a, uh… Whatdaya call it?" He snapped his fingers until the phrase came to him. "Conflict of interest. She's gotta know half the officers in this city."

"Yeah, I thought of that." Jim reached the car and got into the passenger side. "Something she said made me doubt that'd work."

Harvey let out a soft growl and pointed to him. "See, that's where it starts." He climbed into the car before saying, "Little piece of advice? You actually go to this session? Don't get sucked in. Give an inch, and she'll take the whole football field. Maddie might look all cute and innocent, but that shark's got teeth."

"Maddie?"

"Dr. Scott. Whatever."

Jim gave Harvey a look.

Harvey looked back and said, "What?"

"If someone ever told me that you'd be on a first name basis with my therapist, it would've been my cue to wake myself up from whatever nightmare I was having."

"Yeah, well." Harvey started up the car. "It's complicated."

"Yeah," Jim said shortly. "I'm startin' to see that."

They took off, heading back to base at the GCPD.

(x)

Lee picked up the next blood sample and clicked the slide into place underneath the microscope. "It's not Methohexital. It's not a methamphetamine. It's not modifinil, and it's not benzoylmethylecgonine."

Harvey, Jim, and Captain Barnes all squinted their eyes as they looked at her. Barnes said, "So, what is it?"

Harvey said, "This time translated into English. If you please."

Lee sent him a look followed by a half-smile. "It stimulates the brain, kicks up adrenaline, and it is not anything currently available to be prescribed or taken recreationally." She took off her plastic gloves. "Quite frankly, I don't know why anyone would want to take it, if it wakes up the part of your brain that tells you it's a good idea to murder someone."

Jim leaned against her desk. "But it might be a drug someone a little more criminally-inclined could use."

Harvey provided. "You know, if only just to stimulate some general mass murder and mayhem."

Captain Barnes pointed to the slide. "What is it about this drug that kills whoever takes it?"

Lee said, "So… let me back up a bit. When a body's is experiencing extreme trauma to the brain - which both men were - the body either does one of two things: It shuts down or it lights up." She continued, "Starting with the front of the brain which consists of the orbital prefrontal cortex and the anterior cingulate, it would put both men in a heightened state. Big time. The dose given to them was so concentrated that the brain and their bodies weren't able to take the sudden, immense shift in equilibrium. Both men died of a brain aneurysm within minutes."

Jim said, "So they take this and to them, it's like everyone they see is…"

Lee finished, "A potential threat."

Harvey asked, "Okay, but what does that accomplish?"

"Well," Lee said. "In both these cases, it made both men feel that they were in danger, and they reacted accordingly, attacking every person in sight."

"How's it getting into their bodies?" Jim asked. "Pill? Syringe?"

Lee sighed, frustrated. "I can't find any needle marks. So, through their food, drink, or medication is my best guess right now."

Harvey said, "But why these two mugs? You could not have found two Joe Shmoier guys in all Gotham if you tried."

Lee sent the men a sympathetic stare. "I'm afraid that's your department, gentlemen."

Captain Barnes turned to both Jim and Harvey. "Find out whatever you can on Torres and Yanagi. Who they knew, what they ate for breakfast, if they preferred the mountains or the beach. If we can find a common link between the two, we might stand a chance."

Harvey announced, "We're on it, Cap."

As they headed back to their desks, ready to dig up whatever information they could find, they shared an unspoken look. Whoever was running this three-ring circus was two steps ahead of them. They had some catching up to do.

(x)

A few hours later back on the main floor of the GCPD, Harvey yelled into the receiver of his phone. "Yeah, well, if I wanted to know all the ways I can't get access to a file, I would have asked you that instead. … Oh yeah? Yeah, you try that. See how far you get." Harvey slammed down the phone on its cradle and said, "Kiss my ass, poindexter."

At the same moment, Dr. Madeline Scott walked past. "Little trouble greasing the wheels down at city hall?"

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Dr. Dread. Manage to drag enough cops into touchy-feely therapy sessions today?"

Madeline smirked in his direction. "I figure I've done enough damage. Time to jump on my broomstick and fly myself out of here."

"Try not to mentally unhinge anyone on your way there."

"Can't make any promises." She added, "I heard about your case. You know, if you want my help, all you have to do is ask."

Harvey went through the papers on his desk and quipped, "Consider it duly noted."

Madeline stopped in her tracks suddenly. She reached out toward him.

Harvey flinched and then watched her lift something from inside the brim of his hat.

Madeline held up a tiny shard of glass. "Walk through any picture windows lately?"

Harvey returned her earlier smirk. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Well, whatever you were up against, it's nice to see you didn't take second place."

He sat back in his chair. "Aw, Maddie, that's so sweet," he said flatly. "Your concern is so genuine and touching."

Madeline set down the shard of glass on his desk and took her leave.

"No, really," he continued. "I'm tearing up over here."

She sang back, "See you tomorrow, Detective Bullock."

Harvey settled in, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he dialed. "Can't wait."

As he sat there working up to telling off the official down at records once and for all, he overheard an all-too-familiar voice coming from the television next door.

"... That's the thing about self-regulation. It depends on having a friendly relationship with your body. Suppressing your feelings does more damage than it's worth."

A perky newscaster turned back to face the viewers. "We'll be back in a few minutes to continue our chat with Dr. Madeline Scott on her breakout book 'Getting Past Your Past' after a few words from our sponsors."

Harvey stood up, flattened his right hand, and pointed it directly at the screen. "Could somebody please for the love of all that's holy shut up that noise?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kudos! Happy 2016!


	5. It's Been Awhile

5 years ago

Gotham City

"There's something I haven't shared with you."

"That's allowed you know. Like, you're not gonna get a demerit or a detention in therapy just because you didn't mention something."

"No, I know that. I just wasn't sure how to bring up..." Though she was a grown woman, suddenly she looked small and frail. "When I was seven, my family and I travelled to the coast. Even though the beach was a block away, the house had this beautiful sparkling pool. I was vacationing there with my aunt, my uncle, and my two-year-old cousin, and I was pushing her around in her stroller by the pool. For some reason, the only adult by the pool left, and it was just me and my cousin. I made a sharp turn, and one of the wheels of the stroller snapped. I tried to stop it, but the stroller began to tip forward right into the water."

"How did you feel?"

"What?"

"How did you feel when that happened?"

"My God, I was scared stiff. I remember using all my strength, which at seven couldn't have been that much, just to keep her from falling. I started screaming and shouting at the top of my lungs. Of course, no one was around. Then I just couldn't hold it any more. My arms gave out and she fell in. I watched her sink right down to the bottom of the pool."

"What did you do?"

"... I did nothing. I just screamed and stood there. Luckily, my aunt saw from the window what happened. She ran out to the pool. She dove into the water, pulled up my cousin. They were able to do CPR… They saved her life."

"Thank goodness she was okay."

"Yes, absolutely. They still joke about it to this day."

She looked at her overtop her glasses. "They joke about it?"  
"Yes, my cousin will say to me 'well remember you did almost kill me once.'"

"That doesn't sound very funny."

"Well, they think it is."

"When they joke about that, how does it affect you?"

"I feel this gnawing sickness in my stomach. I do my best to laugh along and pretend it's not there."

"What's the gnawing sickness?"

"I think it's guilt."

"Guilt or shame?"

She said softly, "Both."

"Do you remember what thought you're left with after this memory plays in your head?"

"It's something like … 'I should have moved. I should have acted. I should have done -something- besides just stand there while my cousin was drowning.'"

"And now, today, you're running headfirst into the worst, most dangerous homes of Gotham trying to grab up every child you can to save them from a life that will suffocate and kill them… Do you see the connection?"

She shrugged. "Yes, of course I do. But what good does that do me?"

"It does you plenty. If you can see that you're recreating the most horrific, most painful memory of your childhood and trying desperately to give yourself the ending you always wanted."

"What ending is that?"

"I don't know. What ending did you want most?"

She seemed to sink down into her thoughts. After a moment she said, "That I would have acted. That I would have dove in after her and put my own life on the line." She ended with, "That I would have saved her myself."

(x)

Present Day

Wayne Manor

Bruce walked quickly but quietly down the staircase at Wayne Manor. He'd heard the doorbell, but when he looked down from outside the window, he hadn't recognized the person waiting outside the door.

The threats to himself and to those he cared for had been neutralized for the most part. Gallivan was dead. The Order of Saint Dumas had been all but completely dissolved. Even Silver, who in the end had chosen him over Gallivan, seemed to have disappeared without a trace. Bruce hoped she was alive. He hoped that she found herself in better circumstances than he'd left her.

Yet still, he found that every vehicle he didn't recognize, every suspicious circumstance, even every unknown face, was a question mark that he needed badly to become a certainty. Downstairs, he overheard Alfred talking in an urgent tone, so he made himself close but invisible.

Not really invisible, of course. But he walked soundlessly down the remainder of the stairs and peered out from behind the adjoining wall without anyone noticing.

A woman, an …. adult, Bruce couldn't really pin her age, dressed conservatively in a jacket, blouse, and skirt blocked the doorway with her foot.

"I've come quite a ways to get here," she said. "I really need to talk to Bruce."

Alfred said, "I appreciate your dedication to the Waynes. Really, I do. But we are not in need of your services at this time."

She frowned. "Is Bruce … seeing someone else?"

"I assure you. The matter has already been addressed."

The woman paused, staying for longer than most did when faced with Alfred's cold stare. "I'm sure it is. It's just ... I made a promise to Martha-"

"Doctor, you are not the only one who's made promises. Now, since the matter is resolved and Bruce's health is in excellent condition, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Alfred leveled his gaze at her, but she didn't budge, forcing them into a standstill. If Bruce knew Alfred, his next step would be to provide her with an additional, more compelling reason to leave. He didn't give him the chance. Bruce asked loudly, "Alfred, who is this? I don't believe we've met."

Alfred flinched, surprised to see him only a few feet away from where he stood. He sent him a look, one that said 'you've got to learn to stop doing that'. He smoothly blocked Bruce's view of the woman and spoke over her, "This is no one that you need to concern yourself with, Master Bruce-"

"My name is Dr. Madeline Scott." She raised her voice. "I knew your mother. Very well."

Alfred turned half a face to her, his entire body bristled at her words and his glare dared her to speak just one word further.

Dare she did. "I saw her for counseling."

Alfred flared up, "Doctor, last I checked, neither of the Waynes are currently under your treatment." He whispered angrily. "Can't you see this young man has been through enough?"

Bruce asked, "You knew my mother?"

"Yes," Madeline said. "And I know if she were here today, she would want me to speak with you and share anything I could to try to help you."

Bruce weighed the advantages and disadvantages, the subtle messages and overt statements, adding and subtracting in his head, until he said, "Please come in. Make yourself comfortable. If you have time, I'd like to speak with you."

Dr. Scott stepped inside immediately, not waiting for anyone to change their mind. She took off her coat. "Thank you."

Bruce said, "Alfred, please have Dr. Scott meet with me upstairs in the study."

As Bruce made his way back up the stairs, Alfred reluctantly said, "Yes, Master Bruce. She'll join you presently."

Alfred took her coat, and when she handed it to him, he leaned in, "I can only imagine you mean well here, doctor. But if I find out you don't? Let's just say you'll have a lot more to worry about than a lengthy, exorbitant malpractice suit."

Madeline sucked in a breath, nodded, and said, "Understood."

Alfred straightened, brushed down the front of his vest, and said, "How do you take your tea then?"

She said, "Iced with lemon. Thank you."

Alfred brought her upstairs to meet with Bruce, and as he left to get the drinks, he found himself murmuring, "Should've known she'd be an iced tea. Little too much lemon. Little too much ice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the love! Thanks for checking out this story. :)


	6. Alexithymia

Dr. Madeline Scott opened up her briefcase and pulled out a clean, crisp sheet of paper from inside a black folder. "Before we get started, Bruce, I wanted to share this with you."

Bruce accepted the paper. The title read 'HIPAA Confidentiality Agreement'.

The doctor pointed and said, "As you can see from her signature, your mother gave her consent for you to be involved in her treatment or for you to be treated individually, should the need arise."

He read the words, but just barely, just enough to ensure their validity. He found himself focusing on his mother's flowing, feminine handwriting. Her swooping capital 'm' and how she ended the cursive 'e' with her own unique flourish.

She said, "I was sorry to hear about her passing."

Bruce lifted his head at the words. He figured the doctor chose the nicest, softest way to call attention to their murders.

She continued, "Your mother was… She taught me a lot about strength and empathy."

Bruce questioned, "She taught you?"

"Yes." Madeline smiled just slightly. "I may have been her therapist, but Martha had a way of bringing light to even the darkest …" She'd spoken too much, Bruce realized, but she also seemed to be unable to pull back. "Even the darkest enduring tragedy."

 _Martha. Martha._ The name reverberated within his mind until the echoes overlapped each other. It had been a long time since he had heard anyone besides Alfred say his mother's name. He'd almost forgotten what it sounded like when spoken by anyone else.

She kept talking, "And she was funny, too. She told me about how your father would try to give her pet names, like sunshine or cutiepie. She just hated all of them." She laughed a little, though sadly. "I mean, truly hated them. But then she, she gave him one of those little books."

He said, "It was a book of Shakespearean nicknames from the plays. He called her Ladybird."

Madeline snapped her fingers. "And she called him, um… What was it? Duckie?"

"Duck," Bruce corrected softly. "But close."

They shared a smile with each other, and then the lightness seeped out of their faces. Bruce had experienced this sudden blow of emptiness many times before. It filled him with joy and warmth, remembering his parents, the way they used to be when they were still alive. But then, a dark hole opened up inside of him that their deaths left behind. The darkness pulled apart and unmade every good feeling. While the fondness of his parents' memory initially brought him comfort, in the end, he wound up feeling even worse than he'd felt just before.

"There's no hell quite like grief," she said.

Bruce looked her openly. He'd learned only recently in the last year that if you held eye contact and kept quiet, the other party eventually would fill the silence.

Madeline stared back non-threateningly, looking perfectly comfortable.

Inwardly, Bruce began to question his immediate plan, but then the doctor said, "Because it's not just the death of your parents. It's the death of an assumption."

"An assumption," he said, inviting her to continue.

"Yes, the assumption that your parents were going to be with you throughout most of your life."

The more he played with the thought in his head, the more it resonated.

She searched his face, looking for something, but what Bruce wasn't sure. "I know you're hurting."

He smoothed out his features, tried to make himself empty of emotion aside from a calm, even stare. "I'm making my way through."

"Are you feeling your way through?"

He considered this and said, "Is there a difference?"

"There is." Madeline became intent on what she said. "There is a significant difference."

"Well, then...Could you explain it to me?"

The request caught her off guard, but she rose to the occasion nonetheless. "People who can't or won't feel, they have a hard time connecting. But they still crave connection. So those people connect in other ways, more dangerous ways, more upsetting ways. Family feuds, lawsuits, abuse, or worse. I know you're young, but I don't… I don't know. You've had to be an adult, I'm sure, many times in the absence of your parents. That means you must have seen how people get hurt when others are in pain and lash out."

His voice came out not only just above a whisper, "Yes."

Madeline nodded. "Your mother did not want that for you. I don't have much I can give to her memory, so let me give her this. Let me help you."

Bruce didn't reply, only waited to see what would happen next.

She took out her cell phone and said, "You're off from school tomorrow, right? No clubs, practices, anything like that?"

"No," he said without commitment.

Madeline took out a pen and a business card. She wrote a date and time and handed it to Bruce.

After a moment's hesitation, he took it.

"I know we don't know each other, and aside from one xeroxed copy of a consent form that's technically void, there's not much that connects us." She stood up and lifted her briefcase. "But believe me when I say I hope I'll see you in my office tomorrow. Thank you for the tea."

"You're welcome." Bruce said, "Alfred will show you out."

They said their good-byes, and shortly afterwards Alfred came to escort Dr. Scott back downstairs. He apparently had already called her a taxi. Bruce suspected… no, in fact he had no doubt Alfred had been listening to every word spoken.

Instead of a feeling his privacy had been breached the thought brought him comfort. At least someone he trusted had their fingers on the pulse of what was happening. Bruce walked to the window. He watched Dr. Scott climb into the taxi and kept watching until the red taillights faded into the darkness and then winked out completely.

She seemed nice, and some part somewhere inside him wanted to trust her. But people had seemed nice before, and it had very nearly cost him everything.

(x)

Jim and Harvey worked the case until it could be worked no further, at least not until the sun rose in the morning. Jim parked his car and looked up at the sky. A ribbon of dawn peeked out just above the horizon, hinting that morning wasn't as far away as he would have liked. He sighed and quietly unlocked the door to Lee's apartment, using the key she'd given him only a few weeks ago.

He opened the door to see the lights on, to hear soft music playing, and to smell the welcome scent of breakfast being cooked on the stove. He turned the corner and found Lee with spatula in hand in the kitchen.

"Hey," he said, sending her a look of mild surprise.

"Hey yourself."

Jim put his keys down, looked absently through the mail, and then walked into the kitchen. "I guess sometimes you just need midnight pancakes?"

"No. Sometimes your child just needs midnight pancakes."

Jim slid his hand over her stomach, moved his grip to her waist, and gently pulled her in for a kiss. Lee deepened the kiss and lingered there. Jim laughed a little.

Lee pulled back slightly and said, "Okay, what?"

"It's just, you know you must have it bad for someone when the lingering scent of formaldehyde means you're home."

Lee's laugh sparkled out of her. Jim never tired of that sound. He took a seat at the table and loosened his already loose tie.

Lee asked, "Another long night on a stake-out?"

"No, I wish. That would mean we were closer to figuring out who's behind this … recent outbreak."

"You think some pancakes might help?"

"Couldn't hurt." He stood up and got out two plates and silverware.

Lee looked over at him. "You can sit down. I've got it."

"Excuse me, miss." He took on his all-important detective voice. "I'm going to need you to step away from the cutlery."

Lee grinned. "I'm sorry, officer. I didn't know I was breaking the law."

Jim relaxed his tone and said, "I don't know much about the role of expecting father, but I know that I'm not supposed to let you do anything around here if I can help it." He kissed her lightly on the side of her forehead as he passed. "That includes kitchen clean-up, too."

Lee seemed to like the sound of that. "Who knew being knocked up had such fringe benefits?"

Jim set the table and accepted the fresh plate of pancakes from Lee while she turned off the stove. He said, "I heard that the Captain gave you a compliment earlier today."

"Yeah, he said…" Lee mimicked Barnes' voice as she sat down at the table. "'Good work, Thompkins. Nice to see some initiative around here.'"

Jim pointed to her. "That impression's not half-bad."

"Neither was the compliment. From what I understand that's high praise coming from him."

Jim thought back to a conversation he'd endured earlier in the day. He cleared his throat and said, "Do you remember that … talk Barnes gave me? Telling me about how I need to shape up or-"

"Ship out and look for a new job."

"Yeah, that one." Jim dug into his own plate and said in between bites. "Well, he wasn't joking. He ordered me to go to therapy sessions with Dr. Scott."

Lee nearly choked on her first bite of pancake. "Therapy sessions?"

"Bright and early. 9 a.m."  
"Well…" she drew out. "With everything you've been through? It's not like it's gonna make anything worse."

Jim nodded, not completely accepting the comment but not willing to argue it either. "Well, I figured I'd let you know. Seemed like something a future wife should know about."

That earned a smile. "You know a girl could get used to this 'fiance', 'future wife' sorta talk."

Jim returned the smile. "Good thing we can talk about it all we want. It's not like there's anybody at the station who hasn't heard it through the rumor mill by now."

She couldn't help but ask. "Yeah, so speaking of which, what's the deal with your new therapist and Harvey? Every time I overhear them talking they sound like they're acting out a scene from the Honeymooners."

"Old flame. Or his therapist. Or both." Jim cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink. "I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine."

Lee finished off her pancakes. "Well, at least it's nice to know we're not the only ones with our share of problems."

Jim looked at her to convey that he'd heard her. She seemed to be looking for more from him, a response. Another problem they had was that he found himself empty of one.

Lee opened her mouth to say something and then must have thought better. She said, "Thank you in advance for kitchen clean-up."

Jim jokingly saluted her. He leaned in and kissed her once more. "Thank you for the midnight pancakes."

Lee found something funny about that. "I think it's a little late to call them midnight pan-" She gasped and held her stomach.

Jim went on alert. He drew close to her. "Lee, are you…?"

A look of pure joy swept across her face. "She kicked." Lee pulled him in for a crushing embrace. "Oh my God, Jim. I just felt the first kick."

Jim placed his hand immediately on her stomach just in case there was a second act. When none came, he blinked and said, "She, huh?"

She realized along with him. "That's what I said." They both gazed down at the tiny swell of Lee's abdomen. Lee traced her finger on her belly. "She."


	7. Different Names for the Same Thing

When nine in the morning came, it felt earlier than usual. Jim Gordon sat across from Dr. Madeline Scott in her rented office space. The interior of the room used light blues and cream colors. Clean, simple, classic. On the wall in front of him, two black and white photos hung showing an aerial view of Gotham City Stadium in one and a nighttime cityscape of Gotham in the other. When he breathed in, he took in the lingering scent of lemon and tea leaves and just a hint of clean, freshly pressed clothes, all which told him that the doctor had picked up the shirt and skirt she wore from the dry cleaner's that morning and made herself a cup of Lipton right after.

Jim figured it would have been a pleasant room to be in if he hadn't been there under duress and ordered to talk about his deepest feelings with a complete stranger.

He cleared his throat. "So, how does this work? Do I just start talking or…"

Madeline shifted in her seat, making herself more comfortable. "Well, before we get started, do you have any questions about therapy?"

Jim said, "I do have a question about how many sessions the GCPD is requiring me to attend."

"Captain Barnes told me he'd like to see you go to six. But of course, it's a little early to make that call. We'll have to wait and see how treatment goes."

He read between the lines. How many sessions he attended relied entirely upon her professional opinion. He tried to joke. "I doubt there's any way I can just get through them all at once."

A smile quirked onto her face. "That might get a little counterproductive. The whole idea isn't so much what we say here, but what changes occur when you leave." She seemed to consider something. "But we could do two sessions a week to start, if that would speed things up for you."

In weighing that decision, he found himself in favor anything that would make this obligation a distant memory. "That'd be fine."

"Well, this session is yours … " Madeline shrugged her small shoulders just slightly. "So what's on your mind?"

Jim took stock of his thoughts. "I'm thinking about this case I've got to get back to. Wondering who else is going to be targeted if we don't get solid evidence and stop who's responsible."

Madeline said, "Are you often concerned about the outcomes of cases?"

"Absolutely," he answered. "I probably wouldn't be much of a police officer, if I wasn't."

She nodded, as she seemed to understand what he meant. "No, no, of course, you would be invested in the outcome. But I asked if you're concerned, if you worry. Do you have difficulty relaxing due to thoughts of cases running through your mind? Find yourself staying late into the night at the office, sometimes 'til morning?"

Jim easily said, "It's not unusual to pull an all-nighter. With complex cases, we don't make much headway without burning the midnight oil."

She kept her voice friendly and even. "That shows a lot of dedication."

He thought and then gave his own interpretation. "I do my best to consider all angles, run down every lead, until we close the case."

"And when you don't have an open case, how do you spend your time?"

"I spend as much time as possible with my fiance." He found himself proud to add, "We're expecting a child in another six months."

Madeline's face broke into a smile. "Congratulations, detective. Is this your first?"

"Yes." A hint of a smile reached his face, too. "Our first."

She said, "What do you imagine parenthood will be like?"

He tilted his head as he thought. "Exciting. Challenging." He added. "A lot of firsts."

Madeline drew out each word. "First step. First word. …"

Jim went further. "First car payment."

"First college degree." She said, "Better look alive. I hear it goes quick."

He nodded to her and asked, "How about you? Do you have kids?"

The doctor flattened her hand and made a cutting motion in the air. "Gonna stop you there."

Jim paused, confused by her response. "...You can't answer questions about your life when your patients ask?"

She sat up straighter and crossed her legs when she said, "No, I could, and I do. But right now, I want to learn about you."

Though he found the answer strange, he allowed it. "That's… fair enough."

She smoothly changed the subject. "Tell me a little bit about your folks."

"My parents." Jim couldn't say he was surprised to find her asking about his childhood. "My mom was a nurse. My father worked as a D.A. in the city. He died in a car accident when I was twelve. Drunk driver T-boned the car."

She frowned. "I'm so sorry to hear that. It's hard enough to lose a parent. But when you're young and their life ends so suddenly…"

"Yeah." An awkward pause stemmed in between them. Jim found himself quick to banish it. "Well, it happened a long time ago."

"Did your father's death influence your decision to become a police officer?"

"I think it's safe to say that. I never want to see someone else or their family suffer needlessly, just because no one's doing anything to stop it."

Dr. Scott made a thoughtful sound. Jim waited for her to share her thought and instead she asked, "How long have you worked in Gotham?"

"I've been on the job over a year now. I was in the army before."

She leaned forward. "Did you see combat?"

"Yes."

Madeline looked at him and asked, "How many nights a week do you have nightmares?"

Jim eyed her, taken aback by the question. "Why would you think I'd have nightmares?"

There was an edge of certainty to her voice. "They are very common for both police officers and anyone who's served in the military."

Jim attempted to breath out any frustration he felt. He reminded himself that this woman, who could have only been a few years older than he was, meant him no harm. He answered, "I had one. A little over a week ago."

Madeline sat back in her chair. "Could you tell me about it?"

Jim took a moment and then said, "I'm looking down. I'm standing half-way out of a shattered stained glass window. I'm holding onto my… my ex-fiance's hand, and I'm the only thing stopping her from falling straight out the window. If I let her go, she's going to drop three stories down. So I'm hanging on as tight as I can, and I tell her to hold on. She tells me that she loves me. Then she wrestles her hand from mine. She lets go, and she falls backward. Right as she falls, everything gets really still-"

"Like everyone freezes?"

Jim blinked, as he was momentarily brought back to the present. "No, like it's all happening in slow motion. Then, in the middle of everything, a butterfly inches out of her mouth and flies upward." Jim shrugged. "Then, that's it. I woke up."

Madeline nodded. "Detective … did you see what happened there?"

"In the dream?"

"No, when you were talking about it. Your voice became softer. You sunk back into your chair, and it was almost like you were right back there watching it happen." After a short pause, she said, "Was there any part of the dream that did actually happen?”

It took him a moment, but then Jim answered, "Yes. Everything, except the part with the butterfly."

"Your ex-fiance. Did she pass away?"

"No," he said, his voice becoming clipped. "She's alive. But she is under intense medical care." Jim couldn't say for sure why he omitted that she happened to be at Arkham, but he made the decision instantaneously.

She mused on that and then asked, "What's your relationship like with your ex-fiance-"

"Barbara," he provided.

"What's your relationship like with Barbara?"

Jim opened his mouth, but didn't say anything. He looked down at his watch. "That's a long, very long, involved, long story."

Madeline shrugged her shoulders quickly. "We've got some time left."

He paused and said, "I don't know. It's... long."

"So you said. Detective, let me say this real quick. Whatever you say to me today is strictly confidential. Unless of course you tell me that you're planning to kill yourself or someone else, which it doesn't sound like you are. But, that oath we make for confidentiality. It's so serious that even after someone passes away, I still can't share what they told me, unless I was given written permission beforehand."

Jim said, "Dr. Scott, I know you're a professional and I'm sure you take your job seriously. And I wouldn't imagine that you'd share any details of these sessions..."

She waited, and when he said nothing further, she asked, "...But?"

He nodded, obliging her. "But as helpful as I understand therapy to be, I believe my time would be better spent outside this office, running down whatever leads we can find while there's a killer on the loose."

Madeline pursed her lips and then said, "I can understand that logic. Though in a way you've already expressed that."

His eyebrows drew together when he frowned. "In what way?"

She answered calmly but firmly. "You said at the very beginning of our session together that you have open cases with lives on the line. You implied that wanted criminals could be killing victims while we spend time meeting here."

Jim began to protest, and Madeline gently put up her hand. He breathed out some frustration. He could stop even the most persistent of criminals with body blows, and this doctor silenced him with but a wave. She said, "Here's the thing. You're right."

Her agreeing with him felt like a trap. "About which part?"

She spoke in a serious tone. "Innocent people could die while you're here. You believe that if you were at work you'd be better able to stop any further deaths in this case." She stared at him when she asked, "Do I have that right?"

Jim looked at her in puzzlement. There was a line being left out somewhere in her narrative. It was as if he was listening to a salesman, a good salesman, and they hadn't yet dropped the pitch that would make you buy the full set of encyclopedias. Finally he said, "While all that sounds accurate, I'm not getting the feeling that you're going to send me out of here with a clean bill of health."

Dr. Scott opened her hands, as if to say 'you got me'. "That thought about you being able to stop killers. Sometimes you'll be able to. Others times you won't."

Jim spoke in a strong yet soft voice. "As a detective, I'd like to think I understand that truth better than most people."

She searched his face for something. Then she asked, "Do you blame yourself?"

"For what? For when we don't stop them?"

"Yes," she said.

Something akin to guilt rose up inside him, poking a finger in his ribs. In the back of his mind, he saw Officer Parks young, smiling face, as clear as day. He pulled to mind Captain Essen, Sal Martinez, and so many others. Jim blinked the images away and stuffed them back in the deep closet of his subconscious, a mental activity he'd become adept at performing. "I'm not afraid to take responsibility for my decisions, if that's what you're asking."

She pressed, "Yes, but do you take too much responsibility?"

If Harvey had been there, he would have popped off an easy 'cut the crap'. Though Jim wished to convey the same message, he did so more politely. "I think you're asking the same question, just in a different way."

The doctor replied, "Sometimes people who experience trauma blame themselves for things that are no more their fault than bad weather or traffic jams would be."

"Trauma?" he asked, becoming stuck on that word. "You think I need to resolve trauma?"

She took a deep breath and said, "If you watched Barbara choose to fall to what she must have assumed was her death instead of letting you save her. Then, you're waking up from a nightmare where the memory of that is replaying? Then, yes. That would be trauma."

He paused, appraising her, before he said, "Doctor, before we label this 'trauma', let me ask a few questions first. Have you ever met a police officer who's never had a nightmare? Who's never been affected once or twice by the choices they've made in real time on the job?"

"I haven't," she said, agreeing with him. "But it sounds like you put all of yourself into the job." For a moment, though it was clear she meant to talk about him, it sounded like she was talking about someone else. "When that happens, sometimes there's nowhere for troubling thoughts or feelings to go. So they come out in other ways. Like in your nightmare."

Jim noticed that his breathing wasn't as steady as it had been at the beginning of the session. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and and kept himself calm at all costs. "I always thought dreams were our way of working out our problems while we're asleep."

Madeline paused, considering something. She seemed to abandon what she'd been planning to say and instead asked, "While that's sometimes the case, this particular nightmare seems like it might have happened for a reason."

Jim asked, "That reason being?"

She tucked a couple flyaway hairs behind her ear. "That's a good question. It really comes down to whether you believe nightmares are there just to be scary. Or if they're there to tell us something important."

Madeline looked at him, waiting for a response. Jim glanced down at his watch. "Doctor, I believe we're at time."

Madeline arched her neck to the side to look at the clock on the wall behind him. "You're right. We are. But just, give me a minute to ask one more question." She seemed aware that she needed to use every second of that minute. "Help me understand something. On one hand you're anticipating watching your child grow up and go to college, and yet you want to ignore nightmares that may impact whether or not you're able to function at your highest level on the job, a job where officers die if they're not extremely focused. How will ignoring that trauma help you live to see your child grow up?"

Eventually when he began to answer, he wasn't talking about his trauma at all. "In my experience, dwelling on past events doesn't yield the most positive results."

She leveled with him, "You might be surprised by how many people feel that way about therapy in general. But we're not digging up your past. Your past is right here in your present." She added in a soft voice, "It's just like you said, Jim. I don't want see people suffer needlessly, either, not when there's something that can be done to stop it."

Jim breathed out a sigh of frustration, trying out different responses in his head and rejecting each one.

Madeline said, "Okay, that was a minute." She stood up. "I'll see you Monday?"


	8. Heard It Through the Grapevine

"Hey, look who decided to drop by the office," Harvey called to Jim as he walked up the stairs to their desks.

Jim sent him a look and said in a hard voice, "Trust me, if it were up to me, I'd have been here earlier."

He sorted through a file. "What's got you so wound up this morning?" When Jim didn't answer, he looked up at him. His voice took the slightest concern, "Lee and the kidlet okay?"

Jim said, "Both fine."

Harvey stared at him for a moment. Then memory must have caught up with him because he said, "Holy crap, you actually went." Jim's silence seemed to further confirm it. "So was I right? Are you as certifiable as all-get-out? Or do you need another meeting with the head shrink  
before we can make it official?"

Jim breathed out a frustrated sigh. "Let's just say I'm not exactly looking forward to a follow-up appointment."

He shook his head. "Tried to warn you." He reminded him, "Shark. Teeth."

Jim sat down across from his partner. "So you've seen her for therapy?"

"What? Hell no. That stuff's for crazy people."

Jim sent him a withering stare and then asked, "Come up with anything new while I was gone?"

Harvey said, "Ms. Taylor Reese reached out to us again from that Wayne subsidiary. That was a real treat."

Jim nodded, remembering her visit from when Viper was last on the street. He said dryly. "I doubt there's much chance she had anything new to say."

"You didn't miss nothin'." He sang out her statements, "They're not involved in the development of a drug of this fashion. We're welcome to visit the lab if we ever manage to scale the mountain of paperwork blocking our way."

Jim raised his eyebrows and said, "I imagine I'll enjoy filling out the forms just as much as I did last time."

"Don't waste your time. I left the room while she was still yakity yaking away," Harvey said. 

"If I want a broken record, I'll stop by the the pawn shop on Fourth Street."

Jim already knew he'd still fill the papers out and that he in fact still had the copies from last time. He expected by now that Harvey knew both those things, too. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. I ran through the contents of the trucker's wallet and I found an appointment card for Veteran's Services. Turns out our trucker had been discharged from the army and was seeing a psychiatrist there for treatment. Guess who else had an appointment scheduled with their department last week?"

Jim said, "I'm guessing his last name started with Yanagi."

"Gold star for you." He said, "He just started getting services there last month. He was set to see them Thursday."

Jim squinted. "Same psychiatrist?"

"Wouldn't that be convenient? No such luck. Two different ones, both been working with Veteran's Services for decades. I ain't heard back from either of them." He leaned back in his chair. "Tell you this much. They don't get back to me asap? They're gonna hear a loud cop knock on their doors."

Jim found himself smirking. That wouldn't be all they'd hear if Harvey had anything to say about it, and usually he did. "That's good work," he said.

Harvey said, "Hey, somebody around here's gotta work while you're singing kum-bay-ya and doing trust falls."

Jim noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up at the Captain's office situated directly in the center of the second floor of the precinct. Behind the glass windows, Jim watched Barnes pace back and forth, his movements animated, yelling directly into the receiver of his landline. Jim turned half a face to Harvey when he asked, "Any chance you want to join me in talking with Barnes about whether or not to make this interesting piece of information public knowledge?"

Harvey put on his reading glasses and said, "Not for all the little plastic toys in China." He began sorting through the many bags of evidence gathered from Yanagi's EMT station and the cab of Torres' truck.

Jim breathed in through his nose and expelled through his mouth. He was working up the motivation to walk up to the door of Barnes' office when he saw her. Selina Kyle struggled against the police-issued cuffs that secured her hands behind her back. The police officer bringing her in shuffled her past desks just a fraction rougher than was necessary. She made a face. "Hey, Tiny!" The older, mustachioed overweight cop cast her half a stare. "You don't have to drag me around like a piece of luggage just because you can't wait to get to your next doughnut."

He sneered at her. "Maybe you should have thought about that before you lifted that woman's wallet from her purse."

"I gave it back."

"Yeah, only after I told you I'd let you go if you did."

"Way to keep your word on that," she mouthed off.

He found something funny about that. "Sounds like that's a you problem." He slammed her down into a wooden chair. "Stay put. You move, and I'll be on your keister like white on rice."

Selina muttered something about the only reason he'd move is to get white rice into his keister. He shouted back, "I heard that!"

She matched his tone. "Sounds like that's a 'you' problem."

Harvey looked at Jim over top of his reading glasses. "Looks like your favorite CI's here for her regularly scheduled legal check-in."

Jim replied, "She's not my CI."

"Please. If anybody in this godforsaken city knows what a source looks like, it'd be me."

Selina waited just until her Officer Friendly was out of earshot, and she went to work. Jim watched her fiddle with something small, slim, and metal and fish it down into the lock of her handcuffs. He blinked, nodded to himself, and pleasantly strolled, taking the long way around to the front doors of the precinct.

The kid worked fast. She made it all the way to the double doors before Jim stepped forward, effectively blocking her path. "Hi, Selina."

"Cat," she shortly corrected.

"Little trouble downtown?"

"Nothing I couldn't work my way out of."

Jim gently led her back to where the officer planted her. He weighed the pros and cons of re-cuffing her and decided that at this exact moment the effort would be gainless.

"So," she said, resting her right booted foot comfortably against her left knee. "Get stuck in any sewers lately?"

He answered back, "Get pulled in for any misdemeanors lately?"

She looked away from him and flashed her eyes. "The cop said he'd cut me loose."

Jim said, "That your end game? To have someone cut you loose?"

"Most the time," she said, as if it should have been as clear as the nose on her face.

"Then, sit down. Take a minute and see if you can give me something worth cutting you loose for."

Her smirk took up her whole face. "I ain't a snitch."

"You've given us intel before."

She rephrased, "I ain't -your- snitch."

"Look," he leveled with her. "We've had this talk before. You know I only request information when it has to do with keeping people safe."

"Yeah. The -right- people safe." She sneered, "Why should I stick my neck out?"

Jim paused and said, "Because you and the prospect of juvy haven't mixed well before."

She narrowed her eyes at him. He saw in the moment that he had a chance. So he took it. "Do you know anything about a new drug out on the street, or anything about people who are just suddenly gone for no good reason?"

"This is Gotham," she said. "If you hadn't noticed, people have a way of disappearing around here."

Jim said, "Not just disappearing. People going into hospitals, into emergency rooms and not coming out, when they should be out in no time."

"Sorry, Jimbabwe," Selina said. "Got nothin' for you."

He nodded, taking it in stride. "Well, if you hear anything…"

"Don't worry. I know where to find you."

That much he could count on. Jim leaned down behind her, grabbed up the pick she kept in her leather glove, and this time attached the cuffs and her wrists to the wood of the chair. "Sit tight."

"Ha ha. Real funny. Don't quit your day job."

He walked away, heading up to the Captain's office, when he found himself repeating softly, "Jimbabwe?"

(x)

Cat sighed out an irritated little sigh through her teeth like steam. Just because Gordon took away her pick, he thought she'd still be here when he got back from wherever he stormed off to, presumably to stand victoriously in front of an American flag or tell a room for a kids to just say "no" to drugs. She'd be outta here soon enough. She had another pick wedged into the side of her boot. She just needed a distraction. Selina looked from face to face. Cop, cop, office drone, crook, cop, crook, cop.

Another officer brought in a kid not far from her own age and dropped him into a seat across from her. He wore his own set of metal bracelets, too. "Simmer down," the officer said. "If I need to put you in lock-up, I will."

"Bite me, numnuts." He spit on the floor. "I'm fifteen."

The officer smiled sarcastically and said, "You look eighteen to me."

When the cop walked away, Selina nodded to the kid. "Hey, Pete. How's tricks?"

He looked over and grinned. "Hey, hey, Cat. Didn't know they made cuffs that could hold you."

"They don't," she quipped, half-smiling. "Just waiting for my moment."

"Well, don't let me stop you. What're you in for?" he asked.

"Didn't do it. You?"

"They got the wrong guy. I was framed."

They shared another smile. Selina glanced up to check on Gordon. He stood in the doorway of an upstairs office. He and Mr. Clean talked about something that made Mr. Clean a mite bit upset. She shook her head at Gordon. She found herself sighing again. She made a quick hiss at Pete and got his attention. "Hey, let me ask you something. You hear anything about a new drug on the street?"

Pete quirked his lips to one side in thought and offered, "I had some X in my pocket. Had to drop it in a storm grate."

"No," Cat said, rolling her eyes. "A new drug? Something nobody's heard of before."

Pete shook his head. "Not lately. Can't hardly trust any dealers not to shister you out of extra cash. Sad state of affairs out there."

She glanced back up at Gordon. Whatever he said had Mr. Clean's face turning the ruse of a ripe tomato. Cat held off a moment and then asked, "You hear anything about people getting ghosted? Like they check into a hospital for something stupid and just …"

"Don't check out?" Pete asked. "Yeah. Had a couple people warn me not to go to anyone for medical work if I could help it. Then, I had this friend who met this…" A cop walked past and stopped to look through the files on the desk beside them. Pete said, "This 'electrician' in a warehouse downtown who happened to be purchasing supplies for his 'night job'."

Cat squinted and said, "Oh, yeah? What'd this 'electrician' have to say?"


	9. You Really Got Me

Jim tried selling it. Captain Barnes wasn't buying it. "The link to the Veteran's Services is a good start, but you call the press now? We'd be rolling out the red carpet for mass hysteria. Thousands of people, veterans and their families, are seen there everyday for counseling.  
What would we even tell the clients of veteran's services in Gotham to avoid? Don't sip your coffee. Don't take your meds. Don't move until we return with more applicable details and information? No. We need more." He turned to go and then turned back. "By the way, speaking of mental health services, how was-"

"Session went fine," Jim answered. "Next one's scheduled on Monday."

Barnes lightly clapped Jim on the back, an unspoken 'atta boy'. "As far as your open case goes, find more. Find it fast."

"We're on it." Jim stepped back down the stairs quickly, when he heard Selina Kyle call out,  
"Hey, Gordon."

He closed his eyes momentarily before turning to address her. She sat, kicked back, looking comfortable as ever, hands still behind her back. "That get out of jail free card still up for grabs?"

Jim made his way over to her. "That depends. What can you tell me?"

"Word is there was some guy talking about this job he got offered. Someone wanted him to start collecting people off the street."

He neared her. "What kind of people?"

Selina shrugged. "I don't know." Something came across her face, and then disappeared just as quickly. "People no one else would miss if they were just … gone."

"What did they want these people for?"

"All I know is the guy I talked to said it had something to do with bad chemicals."

Jim frowned. "What sort of bad chemicals? Who asked him to start collecting people in the first place?"

She gave him a look. "Let me check my notebook. … How the heck should I know?"

Jim only half-hid the rolling of his eyes. "This guy got a name?"

"Yeah," she said. "It's Jack Gruber."

Jim's eyes widened. He felt the room go very still. "If this is an attempt at comedy, it's not funny."

Selina blinked at him and said, "I'm not joking."

"You're serious?"

She lifted her head importantly. "That's what my intel told me." She flipped back her hair, stood up, and presented her handcuffs in one swift motion. "But that's all I know. You wanna know where he is, you're gonna have to get it outta somebody else they hauled in here."

Jim accepted the handcuffs from her and said, "I know where he is."

"Yeah. Where's that?" Selina asked.

Jim sighed and said, "The same place I left him."

Selina ambled away. "Tell Tons of Fun thanks for the ride in the squad car."

He found himself saying, "They come free with every arrest." Selina slipped out the door, and Jim walked purposefully back to his and Harvey's desks.

Harvey set down his phone on the receiver. When he complained, he had more energy in his voice. "First it's the asshat down at records. Now it's a buncha nuthouse crazy shrinks won't answer their phones." When he looked up, he did a double take. He recognized the look on Jim's face. "You got something."

"Yeah," Jim said, surprised to hear himself saying it. "I got something."

"From your CI."

"Not my CI," Jim reminded him.

"Jim, if it walks like a duck, looks like a duck, quacks like a duck…"

He thought, 'Then it's a Cat.' But he said, "Jack Gruber."

Harvey frowned, looking at Jim like he'd just implied that his third head needed a haircut. "That dirtbag with the electricity fetish. What about him? We put that nutjob away."

"Word has it …" Jim couldn't believe his statement started with those words. "He might know where all these people who 'left town' really ended up. It might have something to do with using or experimenting with bad chemicals."

"I don't know, partner. It's thin."

He motioned towards the Captain's office. "C'mon. We're back upstairs."

Harvey said, "Ten to one, he says it's thin."

(x)

Captain Barnes frowned at both Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock. "I don't know. It's thin."

Harvey nodded Jim a crisp 'told ya'.

Jim said, "My source has come through for us in the past. I don't have any reason not to trust her word on this."

Barnes chewed on the information and said, "Bad chemicals. You think that means this drug in the bodies of your vics?"

Jim said, "It's like Lee said. This drug isn't recreational. It's a chemical destroying the mind of anyone who takes it."

Barnes sighed and said, "Okay, I'll call the director over at Arkham and get you two an interrogation with Jack Gruber, Jack Buchinsky, whatever he calls himself these days. But we’re only spending time on this because we know exactly where this lead is. For once."

They were dismissed, and Jim said to Harvey, "Stick close. We'll be on the road in no time."

He said, "Yeah, last time I checked it's not like the batshit crazy criminals of this city have much penciled into their daily schedule."

Jim sat back down at his desk. He toyed with the idea of going back over the reports he wrote on Jack Gruber's capture. Couldn't hurt. It had been months since he'd reviewed the case file.

He heard the familiar sound of clip-clopping heels approaching. That sound was followed by the slap of folders hitting a desk. Jim looked up into the face of Dr. Madeline Scott. Then he stared back down at Harvey's desk. The tabs of the folders read 'Yanagi' and then 'Torres'.

Madeline said simply, "You're welcome."

Harvey elected not to show any particular sign of gratitude. He said, "Aren't they keeping you busy enough around here without you needing to play office intern to pass the time?"

Madeline said, "It turns out I met Torres' therapist at a training a couple years ago. Figured I'd run a little interference."

"How'd you know I needed 'em in the first place?"

She smiled, saccharine sweet. "Must have been something I overheard."

Jim read between the lines. There wasn't an officer in the place that couldn't have won the prize behind door number one for answering 'Who's at the top of Bullock's short list today?' Yesterday it was Madeline. Today it was the "freakin' ridiculous" psychiatrists.

Harvey looked over at Jim and said, "Yeah, I hear there's a lot of that going on around here lately."

Jim patted his lips dryly in response.

She asked, "So how's the case coming?"

Harvey said easily, "Oh, I think we can file this one under 'gigantic flaming ball of crap'." He looked at her. "Unless you've got anything new for us?"

Madeline leaned against the black metal railing, making herself comfortable. "You know, according to those documents, both Torres and Yanagi were receiving similar treatment. They'd both been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder within the last month or so."

Jim leaned in closer to her, drawn in by the conversation. "Is that uncommon? They were both being seen by Veteran's Services. No doubt plenty of their soldiers come home with those symptoms."

Madeline nodded. "That's true. Both men no doubt saw things that you just can't unsee. But it seems only recently they came in for treatment. Which to be honest really isn't that unusual either. It's not like most people just can't wait to be seen by a therapist."

No kidding, he almost said. Jim thought about all the possible roads he could take, different questions he could ask. It would have entailed explaining the details and purpose of the drug to Madeline, and Jim realized that he wasn't sure that he wanted his therapist having front row seat to both his work life and his private life. He also knew his best chance of keeping the city's residents alive was to take advantage of every possible medical perspective in this case. He would have started asking Madeline questions, if Captain Barnes hadn't approached their desks, interrupting their discussion.

Barnes announced, "I just got off the phone with the head psychiatrist at Arkham. He talked to Gruber to let him know he should be expecting you." Barnes set his stare on Madeline. "He says he wants to talk to you."

Jim moved to look the Captain in the eye. "Sir? Who does he want to talk to? Me or Harvey?"

"Neither of you." He looked back at Madeline. "He's requesting to speak with you, Dr. Scott. He says if we put him in a room with anyone else he's not gonna say a word."

Jim watched the news hit Madeline. Confusion set up camp on her face. Then Jim's attention turned to his partner. Harvey's jawline tightened and his face hardened.

His partner quickly said, "You just get me in that room with Gruber, Cap. He's gonna say a whole lot more than he thinks."

Barnes shot Harvey a stare. "The rules aren't new, Bullock. You're just not used to hearing them enforced. We do all interrogations by the book, especially when it concerns collaborating with the other institutions."

"Right," Harvey said, an edge to his voice. "Because there's no institution that respects the dignity and rights of nutcases like a lockup for the criminally insane."

Dr. Scott spoke up. "You said this person wants to talk to me? And his name was…”

"Gruber," Barnes said. "After the phone call with the warden, I took a look at his file. You knew him by a different name. Jack Buchinsky."

She was all but struck by the spoken name. "Yes," she said softly. "I treated him when I worked as a therapist for Blackgate Penitentiary, six or seven years ago. Back when they had an in-house therapy program anyway." She looked confused again and said, "Wait, how would he even know I'm here?"

Jim put it together quick. "Turns out the one thing they do let you do in the psych ward is watch daytime television."

Barnes must have absorbed the information from Gruber's file well, because he said, "His treatment with you progressed for two years. In that time, did you establish any kind of connection with him?"

Dr. Scott replied, "As much as anyone can establish a connection with a criminal who has psychotic traits, a diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder, a rap sheet including rape and murder, and frankly an acute case of assholism."

Harvey couldn't seem to help himself. "Is that the same or just similar to jackassitis?"

She sent him a warning stare.

"None the less," Barnes said. "It would seem he believes he did develop a therapeutic relationship with you. If he's asking to speak with you now."

She sighed and said, "I can see how it might look that way. But, I ended his therapy abruptly. It wasn't my finest moment. My best guess is he'd like to share a few words with me on that."

Jim spoke up. "We believe he may have information regarding this case we're working. A source of mine said that he knows about this drug that was slipped to Yanagi and Torres."

Madeline looked at Jim. "You think he might know who's responsible."

Jim nodded once.

Barnes kept the conversation on point. "Dr. Scott, in your professional opinion, do you have any reason to believe that if you talked with Jack Gruber that it would further our investigation of this case?"

She said decisively, "Yes, I do."

Jim, Harvey, and Barnes all stood momentarily surprised by the answer.

Madeline continued, "Over two years, I did learn to understand some things about him. I can't make any promises, but if it could help stop anyone else from being killed by this drug, I'll talk to him."

And with that, Harvey Bullock had enough. "Like hell you are."

Madeline spoke softly, as if trying to reason with him. "Harvey…"

Harvey turned to Barnes. "Cap, we've tried playing along and trying to talk sense into crazy before. Look at what happened with Barbara Kean. No offense, Jim."

Madeline and Jim shared a glance. Madeline looked away.

Barnes said, "Barbara Kean left the station, under your watch I might add. Gruber's in a locked down facility, monitored heavily by camera surveillance and armed guards, who as you suggested are just looking for a reason to take someone down."

Harvey said, "Believe me when I say this is going to be is a fantastic waste of time. We don't need it. We've got other leads."

Barnes challenged him. "What other leads?"

He rephrased. "We will get other leads. Just get us back out there on the streets. Let us work."

"Save it, Bullock. You'll be back out there in a matter of hours." Barnes made his decision. "But we investigate this first."

It seemed to take all of Harvey's mental energy to keep his mouth shut.

Jim asked, "When do we leave?"

Barnes looked down at his watch. "Right now. Dr. Scott, you'll need to be debriefed and read up on the Jack Gruber case file before we arrive."

Madeline looked from Harvey, to Jim, and finally she looked at Barnes. She decided, "I'll ride with you." She followed Barnes upstairs, no doubt to receive the Jack Gruber file and collect her briefcase.

Jim said, "Harvey, you know this is our best lead."

He relented. "Yeah. I know."

"So, why do I get the feeling from you that you'd rather be dusting off closed files in records than seeing this interrogation with Gruber happen?"

Harvey ran his fingers through his hair.

Jim realized the answer and spoke it aloud, "Right. Like you said. It's complicated."

He got himself together and they headed out to their car. "Believe me, Jim, when I say you have no idea."


	10. Eminence Front

Thanks as always for the love, feedback, and favoriting! Hope the weekend's treating you well. As for me, any weekend where I get a chance to write is a good one. :)

(x)

Jim and Harvey followed behind the Captain's car as they drove into the outskirts of Gotham and through the wide iron gates of Arkham Asylum. They parked in front of a huge, imposing building, just one of many positioned across the large acreage that made up the sprawling grounds. As Jim stepped out of the car, he heard the faint caw of a crow and looked out onto the sparsely planted, leafless trees and acres of dead brown grass.

Madeline and Barnes joined them immediately. As they walked through Arkham's doors, they were met by a middle-aged man of Asian descent. His dark eyes held a sharp shine, and his smile reminded Jim of the type you often saw in favorite uncles and college professors, a smile that could understand almost anything and only judged when absolutely necessary. He shook their hands and made his introduction. "Hello, I'm Professor Strange. I've been working with Jack Buchinsky since his arrival a few months ago."

As they walked forward, Jim tried to ignore the piercing cry of an inmate who was either in the throes of laughter or letting off a cry of torture. He also tried not to imagine the face of the person doing the laughing or screaming. He tried, and he failed.

Jim put energy into focusing solely on the task at hand. Madeline said to Professor Strange. "I was surprised to hear he requested to speak with me."

Strange fell into stride beside them as they walked forward into the center of the building. "As was I. He hasn't mentioned you in any of our sessions."

She asked, "Is there anything I need to know about his treatment?"

He said, "I like to keep the patients' therapy as confidential as possible, as I'm sure you can understand. So much has been taken from them already. In many ways, the privacy of our sessions is all they have left."

Harvey looked at Jim and rolled his eyes.

"Of course," she said. "Any concerns I should know about? Outbursts? Threats? Suicidal or homicidal ideation?"

The professor shook his head, looking mildly surprised at the question. "No, he's been quite cooperative since his arrival. I understand from his chart that he's been involved in a number of criminal pursuits. He even escaped from this very facility after subjecting the patients here to experiments involving electrocution. But to me, he's seemed calm, talkative, even appropriate at times."

Harvey spoke up, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "I guess it all depends on where you know him from."

Strange shot him a questioning glance, and Captain Barnes said, "Thank you, professor, for setting this up and allowing us to interrupt your schedule. We won't be long."

He smiled cordially and said, "He's waiting in the interrogation room down the hall. I have a session I need to attend myself or I'd stay with you."

Jim nodded a 'thank you' to him. "We'll take it from here."

With that, the professor took his leave.

(x)

As they reached the interrogation room, Madeline nodded to both guards who stood outside it, at their posts. Then she looked through the one way glass at Jack Gruber. He sat silently, appearing to enjoy his respite, looking as easy and comfortable as he might have on a city bus or sitting on a park bench. Upon closer inspection, she saw that a book sat on top of the table inside the room. She immediately recognized it as her own.

The Captain stood out of earshot, taking one last call on his cell phone. Harvey leaned in to whisper, though she was certain his partner could overhear. "You don't have to do this."

She stared up at him. "I know that. But I'm choosing to."

"There's no guarantee it'll lead to anything."

"Or it might," she said. "I'm not gonna bow out just because it's not a sure thing."

Madeline instantly regretted her wording. She had a gift for that. Calling out the white elephant in the room, whether she was in her office or outside it, whether she intended to or not.

Harvey seemed to forgive her for it, or more likely chose to stick to the matter at hand. "Look, Maddie, it's like what you say. Just because a decision's made doesn't mean you can't unmake it. You say the word, we shut this down. We were never here. Simple as that."

Maddie realized that if Harvey Bullock had become the voice of psychological reason that they were in uncharted waters indeed. But sometimes, more often than she admitted to herself or others, once a decision is made, the path is set. We walk it as if other paths are no longer available or never even existed at all. "I know my limits. And I know I might be asking the impossible here, but you gotta trust me."

They both heard the Captain snap shut his phone and walk back toward them. Harvey said, "Just so long as I can pull you out of that room if it goes South."

As if anything other than a force of nature would be able to stop him. When the Captain neared, she nodded to Harvey.

Barnes raised his eyebrows. "Dr. Scott, are you ready?"

She looked to each of the three men. "Anything I need to keep in mind?"

Jim said, "Just do your best to try to get him talking. He's not likely to share any specific information about what we're looking for unless-"

"It's his idea." Madeline shared a look of understanding with Jim. He managed a nod.

Harvey added, "You don't need to stay in there just because you're not getting something. You get a feeling like you need to leave, you get out of there."

No one argued with the advice. Madeline stepped forward. "Thank you, gentlemen. I'll see you shortly."

She could see no benefit in keeping Jack Gruber waiting.

(x)

It felt different, walking from outside the interrogation room to inside it. Nothing changed really, she supposed, except there were now no barriers between them, save for a flimsy metal desk.

Jack Gruber smiled, looking at her as if he happened upon a childhood friend in the middle of a busy sidewalk. "Dr. Scott."

She sat down. "Hello, Jack."

"It's hard to believe that you're actually here joining me in this room, sitting down across from me." A spark glistened in his eye. "Almost feels like a dream."

"Well, I assure you that this is very much reality."

"Ah, reality testing," he said, recognizing the psychological framework. "The chair's real. The floor's real. This table." He made a soft fist and reached across to tap the table, closer to her than she would have preferred. "Is real. It lends to the idea that therefore we must also be real."

Madeline stopped herself from saying aloud 'for really reals', as it would have no doubt cost her the entire interrogation.

Gruber added, "I remember that from our sessions. Also, I remember that your hair was lighter. Scarlet in color.”

"It has been awhile," she agreed.

"Though to be fair age and time have been kind to you and had their way with me."

They sat, appraising each other or so she assumed on his part. He stared at her with unblinking eyes. She tried not to imagine what might be behind them.

Madeline broke the hot silence between them and motioned to the book sitting between them. "Doing a little light reading?"

He raised his voice. "When we're terrified, we learn to suppress and bury deep down what we cannot face. The past is alive in the form of gnawing interior discomfort. The whole world becomes filled with triggers, and this experience shapes the brain."

"I see you got to Chapter Three."

"I liked that part. I also liked what you said in your closing chapter about acceptance."

Madeline maintained the calm tenor of her voice, though it began to take effort. "Which part?"

"That acceptance is learning to tolerate feeling what you feel and knowing what you know. In my own way, I believe I've mastered that. Thanks to you." He nodded to the book. "I was hoping you might sign my copy."

"Let me get my pen."

Jack pushed the book gently toward her. She accepted it, opened the first page, and signed with a flourish. She tried not to think about his motivations for wanting it signed, as no answer would have been helpful to her and she couldn't read minds besides. She pushed the book carefully back to him.

Jack smiled. It sent a familiar shiver down her spine. "My memory isn't what it used to be. The circuits upstairs aren't always firing. But isn't this the part where you ask me how I feel?"

Maddie realized that Jack was treating her like an actress who had forgotten her line. How much had he thought about this interaction before now? She began to doubt that he'd simply reacted on a whim after seeing her appearance on local television. "Well, it certainly would be if this were a session." She shrugged, as if to say 'but I'll bite'. "I'd be interested to know how you're feeling if you'd like to tell me."

"I'm feeling…" He decided upon the word. "Impressed."

"Impressed."

"Yes," he said. "I tell the administration that I won't talk to anyone but you. They contact you. You join them. They bring you here. They stand outside while you visit with me, I assume. It all happens within the hour. I'm impressed at the speed with which this request was acquiesced. It assures me of something."

Madeline said, "That the police generally work in a focused, timely manner."

Jack found something humorous in her response. "No, no. To expend that much effort, to stop the machine and change course so quickly, tells me only one thing. I have something of value, and whatever that is, they must want it very, very badly."

"The question is," she said. "What do you have?"

"That is a good question. A better question would be, is it for sale?"

Madeline clicked her lips and said, "That answer sounds like it's outside my security clearance and skill set."

He searched her face. "Why, doctor, you're coy. Perhaps they did send you in here with an objective. I must admit, I'd be very curious to know what that objective might be."

Most people had at least one game they liked to play. For some it was cards. Others bet on the horses. Jack Gruber played mind games. His gaze seemed to be asking her, 'Do you want to play?' She didn't, but if she choose to anyway, could she win? "If I did know their objective, I'd only share it with you if I believed it would be beneficial to the police officers standing behind that door."

Jack's smile returned. "Ah, so soon we've reached a stalemate. Perhaps I can provide a compromise or rather a trade. For example, if you would be so kind as to answer my questions, I might kindly answer yours."

And there it was. All that was missing was a black and white checkered chess board set between them. "So there's a question you have for me?"

He seemed disappointed. Madeline figured it might have to do with her getting to business so quickly. Jack said, "There is. More than one. After our sessions ended, I was placed on... sabbatical. I wonder, did I ever come to mind for you afterwards?"

Remember, she reminded herself. You did choose to play. "You did," she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's rare if I can't remember a client's name or face after I've seen them for a number of years."

Jack sat silently.

Maddie nodded. Apparently, it was her line. "You know about a 'bad chemical' that ultimately kills the person who takes it but not before they wreak some havoc first." She said it as a certainly just so that it wouldn't be counted as a question. "Who is drugging innocent people with this chemical?"

He smiled, wider, almost laughed. "A good question, doctor, but again, I have a better one. Where is the person who is drugging them?"

Maddie looked at him patiently, mimicking his response from before.

He continued. "That question I will answer. He…" He paused, knowing that just the pronoun would give them information. "Is working for a facility, a well known facility. He is working underground, literally. He is legally employed and well-funded. It's equal parts admirable and laughable that your escorts outside believe they could detain him." Jack motioned towards her with his face, as it was his only way to motion. "He is always recruiting. I wonder if he might even have an opening for an enterprising, experienced psychologist."

Maddie did her best not to feel sick. "Is that your next question?" she asked, as it was her turn. "Am I interested in being hired by this man responsible for these deaths?"

"No." He smiled, appreciatively. Like she'd forgiven him for breaking a rule in a board game. "Instead let me ask, what was your first thought when you heard that I requested to visit with you?"

She decided she did not care for his use of the word 'visit'. "How does he know I'm available? And if I go, will it benefit anything?"

"The more honest you are," he shared with her. "The more honest I can be in return."

She understood. "I became anxious about the idea of meeting with you, and I decided to..."

"Face your fear."

"To be of assistance."

Jack nodded, allowing it. After all, he'd gotten the answer he wanted. "Your turn, doctor."

She asked him. "What is the name of the man whose chemical is killing these people?"

"I had to fill in part of your last answer. You'll need to fill in part of mine. I'll give you his prolific. He is a doctor, a scientist studying the connection between the body and the mind. Much like you."

Relief at getting a piece of information disappeared when she realized Jack's next question was coming.

Jack said, "When I was removed from the general population and placed into solitary confinement, our sessions were quite suddenly… What's the phrase you doctors use? Terminated. It wasn't long until I began to wonder who alone was responsible for that decision."

Madeline had no idea when she started on the path that this is where it would lead. Unfortunately for her, there still was no deviating or turning back. She could only press onward. "No decision is ever made in a vacuum, Jack."

He clucked his tongue in disappointment, to imply that she wasn't playing fair.

She continued, "However, my professional opinion and the report I wrote building upon that opinion was ultimately the deciding factor in your placement in solitary."

Again he looked impressed. "Bravo, Dr. Scott," he whispered. "Now that I am certain of how desperately they need the things I know, I believe I'll need to speak with someone who can arrange a negotiation for any further information I may have." He continued, "Before when I thanked you for my transformation, I wasn't completely convinced that you were the one to thank. Now I know. If it wasn't for you, nothing of what I've become could have taken place. It would have been forever lost, buried deep underneath the layers that the years of solitude peeled away, one by one. And doctor…" He leaned in close. "Believe me when I say that I am eternally grateful."

The door opened so hard that it slammed against the wall. Harvey Bullock stood in the doorway. Harvey's face tensed with a narrow, watchful expression, the look of a dangerous animal ready to strike. He barked at Gruber, "Time's up, asshole." He eyed Maddie and said softly, "C'mon. Let's go."

Maddie looked to him, stood up, and moved away from the table.

Harvey kept his eyes locked on Gruber. "Do yourself a favor, don't waste your breath asking for a deal. You already gave us everything we need, slimeball. We're done here."

Jack brightened as he recognized Harvey. "Detective, do I have you to thank for arranging this meeting?"

He shot back. "Arranging this meeting in Arkham because we locked your sorry ass away? Yeah, sure thing. Have a nice life rotting behind bars, psycho."

Jack called after her, "See you soon, Dr. Scott."

With her back still turned, she said, "Good-bye, Jack."

The door closed behind them.


	11. Electric Worry

5 years ago  
Gotham City

Her brow furrowed when she said, "I had the nightmare again."

The doctor crossed her legs and asked, "The same one? With the hurricane?"

"Yes, except this time it was different."

"How so?"

"It was worse."

The doctor remained quiet for a moment. Finally she asked, "Do you mind if we talk about it?"

She breathed out a sigh and smoothed her hands down her pressed pencil skirt, steeling herself before she began. "It starts out the same as before. There's an explosion, wind, complete chaos. Except this time when I look for my son and husband and Alfred, they're nowhere to be found. Then it gets worse. I can't find my phone either. Then all of a sudden, the house crashes down. Beams, dry wall, marble, it's all crumbling and falling down on top of me. Then suddenly, inexplicably, I'm outside. And the house doesn't even … look like my house. It's … changed somehow. The ambulances and police cars arrive, and … they can't find anyone, except me."

The doctor frowned thoughtfully. "How are you feeling during the dream?"

"I feel scared, confused, completely cut off. I'm devastated."

She said, "Would it be fair to say that you're feeling every bad feeling there is to feel by the end?"

Martha sent the doctor a look and half-smiled. "Anybody ever tell you that you have a way of hitting the nail on the head, Madeline?"

Dr. Scott smiled back at her. "Someone told me once that my favorite tool was a hammer. He was suggesting at the time that I needed to find a smoother, gentler way to get my point across."

She eyed her. "Did you ever take his advice?"

"Not really,” she flatly admitted. She shook her head and got back on track. "But let's get back to your dream. I have a theory if you're interested."

She shrugged and said, "I am. Let's hear it."

"First let me ask you a question. In our last session, you said that you're not the good person I think you are. Could you talk to me more about that thought?"

Martha sunk down in thought, considering, weighing, until finally she said, "When I was younger, in my teens, early twenties, I was what you'd call a party girl."

Madeline leaned in, "Weren't we all?"

"No, I don't think many people took it as far as I did," she said, sounding like a person might talk while carefully skating across thin ice. "My family was rich, powerful. It was just … the lifestyle I led. Poverty, illness, abuse… I didn't think they were a problem, because it wasn't a problem for me personally. Then, I met Thomas. He was … different than anyone I'd ever met. He cared, about everything and everyone. I married him, and everything changed. I changed."

"You grew up," she provided.

"I suppose I did."

"Then, why can't you forgive yourself for whatever thoughts or feelings you had during your teenage years? Why are you punishing yourself?"

"That's what you think? You think I'm working for child protective services-"

"Free of charge," Madeline said, interrupting her.

"And having these dreams to punish myself for dismissing the needs of others."

Madeline said, "That might not be the whole story, but I think we're getting there."

(x)

Present Day  
Gotham City

Jim Gordon and Captain Barnes looked over from their post at the two-way mirror. Dr. Scott walked out with Harvey, and to Jim, she seemed even-keeled, despite what had taken place. Barnes said all the right words. He thanked her for her service. He assured her that her meeting with Jack Gruber had been more than helpful and promised that when they caught the criminals responsible that the quality of the information they received from Gruber today would prove paramount in their capture.

Jim overheard Madeline say to Harvey. "I'll be right back. I need to return a call I missed. I'll just be around the corner."

Harvey nodded as she left.

Barnes spoke bluntly almost the second the doctor stepped away. "He knows more, even if he got more out of her than she did out of him."

Harvey said, "Or he's just having a field day outside of his broom closet of a cell."

Jim added, "He doesn't have his tools, but he took advantage of the one time he'll get to mess with the mind of a civilian."

Harvey added, "You wanted results, Cap? You shoulda sent me in there. Not her."

Harvey and the Captain began debating when they would return to pump Gruber for more information (within the confines of the law, Barnes' order) and debated the mystery of the 'doctor working underground'. Jim turned back to Jack Gruber sitting alone in the interrogation room. The man stared upward, smiling to himself.

He loved it, Jim realized. He … _savored every second_. The images returned suddenly and played before his eyes, the same screenshots every time.

Rough rope tied his wrists to a rusty wheelchair. A flash of the knife under Lee's throat. He slid down onto the ground as bullets flew, using the body of a gunned down criminal to shield himself. He pointed his gun forward from where he sat in the passenger side of the crashed police car. Barbara stared down, as if peering into his soul. _'Are you going to shoot me, Jim?'_ And then they were back at the shattered stained glass window. Barbara let go and fell down, down, down, down and-

He shook the images away from his mind. They broke like a film reel melting apart, abruptly ending a movie.

Was this what it had looked like when he decided to play Barbara's game? The futility of the exercise was so obvious to Jim now, literally standing from the outside looking in.

Jim stood there, feeling the aftershock of the memories that played back from the night Barbara nearly killed them all. No doubt they'd risen into the ether as he knew Barbara was here within these walls, in this very facility. Even though the memories left, he could still hear Lee tied up beside him gasping for breath… Wait, no. That was impossible. Even though he'd been assaulted by the past, he hadn't actually time traveled.

Jim looked towards where he'd seen Dr. Scott leave to take a phone call. He stepped to the side soundlessly and peered around the corner. He stared into an empty, half-lit hallway, where Dr. Scott stood leaning against the concrete wall, hunched over. She was… No, no, she wasn't crying. But she breathed heavily in and out. Her shoulders shook slightly, just enough that it was clear the movement was out of her control.

She seemed to be coming around, and watching her, Jim began to understand.

(x)

The minute Madeline turned the corner she felt herself cave. The thoughts crashed in, picked up speed, and then they looped, running overtop each other. 

The way he manipulated her. The way he silenced her. Once again, the only thing better than being toyed with by a madman was having an audience present when it happened. And the look in Jack’s eyes was bad enough. … But they reminded her too much one ones that she’d looked into before.

Inexplicably, Madeline thought of Harvey. He walked in and set things straight. He made Gruber the prisoner and her the free citizen. It brought order. It brought sanity. The facts gave her a tiny hand hold. Carefully, she pulled herself back up out of her panic.

She focused first on her breathing. Inhale, exhale, repeat. Then she reframed some of her immediate thoughts.

This was an opportunity to face my fear, and I faced it.

I tried to aid the police investigation. I can't tell the future. The information may yet prove helpful.

I did the best I could. That's all I can do.

She started to feel herself returning to the moment. She looked around and saw… Detective Jim Gordon stepping back and disappearing around the corner. He hadn't wanted her to see, but no doubt he witnessed everything just the same. She decided it wasn't in her best interest to attend to that now. She filed that away to address later.

One last gasp of anxiety broke through.

_Buchinsky made a threat. It's clear he wants you to think he'll end your life._

Ninety percent of the way out of the attack, she easily thought, _He's in Arkham. If anyone did want to hurt me, that's where I'd want them to be._

Her breathing returned to normal. Her mind cleared. She walked back slowly, overhearing Gordon, Barnes, and Harvey discussing their next move.

Harvey looked over and called to her. "Hey. We're heading back. Figure we'll pick back up on our last trail."

Madeline nodded. "I'm gonna need a ride back to my office."

Harvey said, "What do I look like? A cab driver?" Then. "Same place?"

"Yeah, turns out when you pay your rent on time for years, they're happy to make some space. Who'da known?"

"I'll get you there." Harvey took out his keys and called out "Cap, Jimbo, I'll meet you back at the GCPD. Won't be long."

As she followed Harvey, at a safe distance she saw Jack Gruber being taken back to his cell by two armed guards. It was only for a split second, but he looked her right in the eye as she went by.


	12. Tear in My Heart

Madeline leaned back into the passenger side of the car as Harvey drove out onto the main road. They rode in silence, save for the soft crackle of the CB and the tires thumping as they hit potholes on the street that tax dollars forgot.

Harvey didn't glance over at her, but he did say, "So that was the guy. The one that gave you nightmares."

She thought on it and said, "Technically, I believe my answer has to be 'I can neither confirm nor deny that statement'. But something tells me we're past that now."

His voice softened just ever so slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Madeline said. "I wouldn't have been if this had happened seven years ago, but I am now."

He quickly reverted back to talking in a rude, stiff tone. "I don't suppose you can clear things up for me as to why you decided to walk back inside a room with that maniac."

She rolled her eyes. She wished she hadn't, but she couldn't stop herself. "That maniac used to be my client."

"Emphasis on 'used to be.'"

She sighed and said, "I thought it might give me closure."

"Yeah, that worked out well."

"Thanks, I can see that."

Harvey glanced over at her momentarily before returning his gaze to the road ahead. "Look, it was a rigged deck seven years ago and it's a rigged deck now. Nothin' you ever said was gonna help that sleazeball."

She didn't disagree with him. "Your captain talked a good line, but it's probably like you said at the precinct. Just a waste of time."

He seemed to be mentally at war within himself before he sighed out and took on a gentler tone. "Listen… you don't know that. It ain't over yet. Time'll tell."

Maddie glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Anytime Harvey tried to sound like nice guy it always came out a little like someone speaking a foreign language for the first time.

In the next moment they spoke overtop of each other.

"So you know, for the record, you don't have untreated jackassitis-"

"Look, yesterday I had every right to ream you out, but I wasn't-"

The tires hit the road. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Static cut in from the CB.

Madeline broke the silence first. "I should have called."

"No, really? You think?" Harvey shot back. "What the hell, Maddie?"

Excuses swirled through her mind. You changed your number. It's not like it would have made any difference anyway. I wasn't even completely sure I was actually coming back, and the like. None of them were worthy of being spoken aloud. She wasn't sure if she could tell the whole truth, but the least she could do was tell part of it. "I could have hunted down your work number. I thought about it, calling you. But… I wasn't ready."

He shook his head, frustrated. "You weren't ready for what?"

"I wasn't ready for my call to ruin your day or worse for you to not answer at all." She said, "And you can't tell me there would have been any other possible outcomes but those."

"What're you doin' back here, Maddie? Really?"

The question diverted from the topic at hand. But it was the second time he'd asked her in the past two days. She decided this time warranted an answer. "It came to my attention that a previous client of mine needed me here. I actually meant to come back earlier this year."

"So why didn't you?"

"Another client I was working with outside of Gotham needed me more." That was the problem with truth-telling. The more you engaged in it, the more truth spilled out. "I, uh, I lost her about a month ago."

He breathed out heavily before saying, "That's the way it shakes out sometimes. I'm sorry."

She said, "She finally left her husband. But she was only out of the house five days before he found her." Maddie kept talking, unwilling to leave that open for response. "After the investigation was over, I realized there wasn't much stopping me from coming back. Also I figured it couldn't hurt to sell a couple books while I was at it."

"Well, you sold at least one," Harvey said. "I didn't know criminals suffering from Jack Gruber's sort of brain damage could read full sentences."

"It's always a pleasure to meet a fan." Maddie found herself half-smiling, thinking back. "When you barged in and shut Gruber's trap, it reminded me of when you barged in after I got one telling off that one officer. The one the GCPD actually fired."

"Ha. Fuentes." He smirked loudly before he said, "You talk about it all nostalgic now. You're the one who told me to back the hell off."

She sat up straighter and cleared her throat. "I believe I told you that I appreciated the sentiment, but that I could handle him."

"Oh yeah? Prove it. You got it all on a tape recorder somewhere?" He huffed, "Probably."

She took it in stride. She even found herself smiling. "Sorry I stopped you from beating him with a chair."

He said back, "He called you a piece of ass."

"You called him a shitsack."

Harvey barked a short laugh. "I hated that guy."

Maddie said, "You didn't have to add that he was a slimy, low-lying, lizardy knob jockey, but you do get points for creativity."

Harvey looked at her. Perhaps she'd managed to surprise him. "You got a sharp memory there, doc."

"It comes in handy in my profession from time to time."

After only a few short seconds, their smiles faded. Madeline imagined she felt only a fraction of the feeling that had overcome Bruce Wayne the night before. Except he was a young boy whose parents had just been murdered … and she and Harvey were two grown adults who just …

Madeline said, "After…” She stopped herself. She didn’t have the words she needed, so she skipped over them entirely. “We just never could quite get it right, could we?"

Though he must have known what she was talking about, he said, "Get what right?"

"That's a long list, I guess. But the, um… Uh, the uh..." She laughed at herself. "Dammit. I had just had the word, but I lost it."

"S'matter with you?" he popped off at her, a sarcastic smile in place. "It's like you just spent the afternoon with a deranged psychopath or something."

Maddie shook her head. "Well, if it means anything, there's nobody else I would have wanted on the other side of that door but you."

Harvey kept his eyes on the road. "How far would you have let it go, you think, if I hadn't stepped in?"

She frowned a little. "Maybe there's some answers we're better off not knowing." She asked, "Are they all like that? The ones you bring in?"

"They're not all quite that particular breed of crazy. But they must be some kinda crazy to do the things we prove they do."

"Sounds staggering."

Harvey made a face and shook his head. "Nah. Nothin' people in this city do surprises me any more."

It took her a second to ask, and when she did, she asked her next question more directly. "How bad is it for you out here, Harv?"

"It ain't no cake walk. But I get by."

She grinned suddenly, appreciating his answer. "I know that's right."

There was nothing soft in his voice when he said, "You better believe it, sweetheart. I get by and then some." He cracked a sudden smile. "That partner of mine though. Now there's a piece of work."

Maddie made a sharp cutting motion in the air with her flattened hand.

"Pleadin' the fifth, huh?" He made a left turn into the driveway of her office building. "Dr. Madeline Scott, everyone. Ever the professional."

When they reached her steps, she got out of the squad car and looked back once more. She lingered there before she said, "Good luck, Harvey."

"Wouldn't that be nice for a change?" He pulled away, and Maddie turned back to face her office.

She walked up the steps, and at the same moment, a sleek, shiny black town car rolled up to her door. The car parked, and Alfred Pennyworth climbed out of the driver's seat. Keeping his eye on her, he stepped to the right and crisply opened the door of the backseat. He looked a lot like a man who had an invisible gun to his head. In fact, he probably would have rather been doing anything other than delivering Bruce Wayne to a therapy session.

Bruce stepped out of the car, looking calm, collected and rather dapper if Maddie did say so herself.

"You're here," she said.

He blinked, confused. "The card said three 'o clock."

"No, no, you got it right." With a wave of her hand she welcomed him to the front door of her office. "And I must say you have excellent… timing."

Timing. That was the word that escaped her in the car with Harvey. After everything happened, they just never could quite get the timing right.

She smiled to Bruce, dismissing all other thoughts from her mind. "Why don't you follow me inside?"


	13. Rooms on Fire

Harvey sighed to himself as he pulled back onto the main road. Same old, same old. That girl just wasn't happy unless she was working on giving him a migraine or a heart attack… Or you know, another condition further South and a little simpler to clear up. He shook head and made a frustrated sound. He tried to sift through the thoughts, sensations, questions, and memories brought swirling into his mind since Maddie waltzed her way back into town. He found trying to put them into any solid order going about as well as giving a stray cat a bubble bath. So he did what he always did when he realized that the best possible outcome would not be worth the time, effort, or brain power required. He moved onto more cut-and-dried matters.

Or he would have anyway, if there had been any.

Harvey never found out where his thoughts might have taken him next. His cell phone vibrated at his side. He recognized the number and answered it, "Yo, Jimbo. What you got for me?"

"Where are you?"

"Just dropped off the doc-in-a-box. What'd I miss?"

"Plenty," Jim said. "I'm at Park Row. Someone started a fire in a luxury apartment complex. Residents who escaped identified the arsonist as Lucy Grimwold."

Harvey gritted his teeth. "Let me guess. She's a nice lady. Got some problems but would never-"

"Set fire to her own building? Yeah. We still haven't found her. Fire trucks just arrived. You better get down here."

Harvey looked up into the sky and saw a black plume of smoke curling up above the skyscrapers in the distance. "Do yourself a favor. Hold off doin' anything all Jim-Gordon-full-on-hero-like for like five minutes. I'm on my way."

The wheels of his squad car burned rubber as he made a U-Turn and flicked on the red police siren mounted to the dashboard.

(x)

Jim ended the call and looked to his phone. He opened an attachment from Captain Barnes to show a picture of Lucy Grimwold's driver's license obtained quickly from the database at the DMV. He stared down at a photograph of a girl in her late twenties with blonde hair, brown eyes, and an easy smile. Jim asked in a hard voice, "Any chance she could have gotten out?"

The city fire marshall, a tall, middle-aged man dressed smartly in a fireman's uniform, shouted over the sound of sirens and the blaze of the fire, "My guys're are in the building, pulling people out as quickly as they can. No one's come out who's matched her description so far."

Jim nodded. "Can I take a look at the floor plan?"

The fire marshall handed him his phone, and Jim quickly took in the entrances, exits, and general layout of the building. "I wouldn't go in if I were you, detective," the marshall said.

Jim handed him back his phone and scanned the street for Harvey's car. He saw a bus, a blue van, and a sedan parked nearby, but no sign of Harvey. He looked up into the broken windows spouting flames over his head. The smoke clouded into the air, filling his lungs and making him cough. He flicked open his sidearm and removed his gun. "I'm not going inside, but I am gonna secure the perimeter. If this one's anything like the others, she'll make her presence known."

The fire marshall told him, "Whatever you do, be careful. I've got my men working, but this blaze is gonna get worse before it gets better."

Jim nodded and ran down the side of the building, past firemen pulling residents away from the flames. A voice of reason spoke up from somewhere inside of him saying, 'Most people run away from a building going down in flames, yet you run toward it.'

The smoke stung his eyes, making them water. The closer he got to the building, the more the heat radiated, like someone turned a hair dryer on full blast right into his face. He held up his left arm and buried his face in the crook of his elbow to stop himself from breathing in the smoke. He looked up at an old metal fire escape. For a moment, Jim saw nothing except the black smoke billowing up the side of the building.

But then…

A woman with blonde hair dressed in a blouse and blue jeans staggered down the steps, lost in the haze of the smoke, coughing so hard that Jim heard her before he saw her.

"Lucy!" he called up. "Lucy Grimwold!"

The woman fell to her knees coughing. Jim caught just a glimpse of her face before her head lulled forward and she collapsed on the metal steps above. He quickly holstered his gun and ran forward to the metal rungs of the fire escape. The rungs, badly damaged from disrepair even before the fire started, hung high above his head. He jumped as high as he could, straining. His fingertips hit the corroded metal. "Lucy!" he bellowed. "I'm almost there! Just … Just hang on!"

He jumped again and just barely got a grip. It was short-lived. In no time, his fingertips slipped, and when he went down, he elbowed something.

Not something. Someone. Harvey Bullock sighed out, "Should have waited for me." He bent down and clenched together both his hands. "C'mon."

Jim nodded. "Get me up there."

Harvey supported Jim's foot and catapulted his partner upward. Jim grabbed onto the metal rung and grunting, he managed to pull himself up. His right foot found its hold, and he hurried up the ladder of the fire escape.

A blast boomed beside Harvey, sending glass shards shooting outward along with the flames. Harvey ducked and pulled up his leather jacket to shield himself. He shouted upward, "Jim! Hurry it the hell up! The entire building's going up in flames!"

Jim worked quickly, but the smoke only worsened the higher he climbed. Sweat poured down the sides of his face, and his breathing became labored as he gasped and coughed. Finally, he felt the fabric of Lucy's jeans underneath his hands. He pulled her forward, grabbed her up over his shoulder, and scaled back down the rusty ladder as quickly as his legs would carry him.

Beneath him, he could hear Harvey yelling but he couldn't make out what he was saying. The fire blazed, crackling overtop of his partner's words. Jim hurried, descending from rung to rung. His foot went back to find its hold and instead, Jim cursed as he lost his balance. It was too late to correct. He and the unconscious body of Lucy Grimwold tumbled downward.

He twisted his body so that he'd taken the brunt of the fall and waited for the sick pound of his back against concrete. He gasped in a breath as his body hit into something soft but solid instead.

"Ow! Son of a… Aw…" Harvey struggled to climb up from underneath his partner and the unwitting civilian-turned-arsonist. With the wind knocked out of him and smoke building all around them, Jim hurried to his feet and pulled his partner up.

Together they carried Lucy and ran as fast as their legs could carry them. Another window exploded behind them, sending a stream of fire shooting right past them.

Two firemen met them. They gently took Lucy Griswold from them onto a stretcher. An EMT rushed up to take her vital signs. Jim asked, "Has she got a pulse?"

The EMT waited a few seconds and then looked up, "It's faint, but it's there. We'll get her in an ambulance."

Jim said, "We'll follow."

Harvey stood beside him, hunched over, his hands on his knees.

Jim stood next to him. After a string of coughs, he said, "Thanks for the assist."

His partner let out a ragged breath and said, "For the record, I make a better blocking shield than I do a trampoline."

"Looks like I owe you one."

Harvey smirked. Jim understood. Right. As if either of them at this point could be keeping count.

Jim kept his eye on the ambulance and walked forward to follow. Harvey let off a groan and did his best to keep up. He waited a moment, as so not to lose his partner, and he looked for where Harvey parked the car. Jim saw the blue van, which he'd eyed before, jut forward and squeal its tires as it took off from the scene. He frowned and squinted. He caught that the license plate started with 'CV', before it disappeared around the corner.

Harvey took off his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow. "You know, when the Cap told us to turn up the heat on this case, I don't think this is what he had in mind."

Jim turned his attention back to the street and found Harvey's car poorly parked up against the sidewalk. "Lucy Grimwold's still alive. That's something."

They reached the car and climbed inside. "I don't know, Jim. First, the drug turns 'em into psycho killers. Then, before they can talk, it kills them on site. It leaves a bunch of bodies in its path, and so far it's taken care of anybody who's taken the drug telling us their story."

"But why?" Jim asked. "What's the pay off? What does anyone have to gain in doing this?"

Harvey rolled his eyes, speaking as if his partner oughtta know by now. "Gotham is a simple equation, Jim. Crazy plus mass hysteria equals general mayhem. The 'why' isn't high up on my list of wonderings. It's who's running this three ring circus that concerns me."

It concerned Jim, too. "When she wakes up, hopefully she'll have something to tell us."

"If she wakes up," Harvey said. "After Torres and Yanagi, it doesn't look good for her."

They followed closely behind the ambulance, making their way to the hospital. All Jim could do was hope that his partner's first instincts this time were wrong.

(x)

In the front seat of his beat-up blue van, Dr. Moon felt a bead of sweat build on his temple and trickle down the left side of his face. His breath shuddered out of his body as he watched the fire, the cops, the girl, and the entire scene unfold before his very eyes. One of the cops, a good looking clear-eyed fella, carried an unconscious Lucy Griswold away from the building that she'd very nearly burned to the ground.

Dr. Moon's lips pursed together in a thin, frustrated line. Then he jumped as his cell phone rang at his side. He didn't have to look down at the number to know who it was. Dr. Moon took the call, but an all-too-familiar voice answered first. "Dr. Moon," he said brightly. "I think we need to talk."

He could hear the fear in his own voice when he said, "Funny. I was just about to say the same thing to you."

The doctor on the other end of the line laughed, loud and long. "I like you, Dr. Moon. I liked you the moment I hired you, and I still like you now."

Dr. Moon watched paramedics accept the girl from the arms of the detectives before they shuttled her into an ambulance. "Oh," Dr. Moon drew out, his voice weary. "You might see it differently if you were sitting where I am now."

"On the contrary," the doctor's voice said. "You've eluded local law enforcement so far, albeit just barely. I can't imagine you're very comfortable. Sitting in your van breathing in the nasty smoke from that fire."

The sweat poured down in buckets now. Dr. Moon's voice caught in his throat.

The doctor on the other end of the phone line chuckled before he continued saying, "Don't give up now, Dr. Moon. You've kept this interesting. I was afraid when I first spoke to you about your experiment that its end would be as disappointing as your last. But something about conducting the experiment in real time is challenging you. I believe you're closer now that you've ever been."

Dr. Moon made himself breathe and then made himself speak. He raked out. "What do you want?"

"There are so many answers to that question," the doctor answered. "Mostly I want to see what this drug can REALLY do. Right now we get only a few moments of the raw anger these patients feel. I want to see their anger's full expression. I want to see what these victims can do, what vengeance they'll seek when they really feel the hell of their nightmare."

Dr. Moon sighed. He'd made all the calculations. Each subject recreated their scenes perfectly, the sights, the sounds, even the smells. They attacked. Just not for very long. He needed to keep them alive and keep them fighting. Dr. Moon said, "I've sent the drug to every person on my list. …But I still need to find one last subject."

The doctor took a deep breath before responding. "I have a request for your last subject."

"I'm not sure you're aware, but I'm on a little bit of a deadline here," Dr. Moon quipped back.

He chuckled and when that laugh died down, he said, "I've seen your soldiers, your nurses, your survivors … Now I want you to show me something you haven't before. We all wear our masks. You have your mask. I have mine. … In the final chapter of your experiment, I want to see what someone looks like when we take that mask off."

Dr. Moon continuing staring at the two detectives. He thought of them when he ended the call, when he started up the van, and when he peeled away from the crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to give you an idea, I believe we're more than halfway through the story. I can promise a beginning, middle, and end to this one. Woo-hoo! Thanks to everyone reading!


	14. Still Fighting It

Gotham City

5 years ago

"So how was your week?"

"The week was decent… on the whole. But last night, my husband and I had a fight."

The doctor's face took on concern. "From what I understand that's unusual for you two, isn't it?"

"Well, yes. I mean, no. We didn't have a fight, a fight makes it sound …" Martha opted not to finish that thought and said, "We had a disagreement. A disagreement that was a little louder than usual."

Madeline crossed her legs and leaned forward, giving Martha her full attention. "What caused the disagreement?"

"It was about me coming here." She watched the doctor's face carefully. When Madeline didn't say anything, Martha said, "You don't look surprised."

The doctor smiled a little and said, "It seems to take a lot to shock me these days." Martha seemed to be looking for something else from her, so she continued. "Did something bother him about you coming here?"

“No. Well, not exactly that.”

Madeline let the silence hang for quite some time. Then she asked, "Maybe he didn't know you were coming?"

Martha squinted her eyes a little before she said, "That's a good guess."

She sighed just slightly before she shared, "It might alarm you just how much of what I do is guessing. I suppose they're educated guesses, but still."

Martha appraised the doctor, sighed a little herself, and then said, "I hadn't been one hundred percent honest with him about what doctor I was going to see or for what purpose. The bills came, and … your billing is discreet. But Thomas is nothing if not intelligent. I have a feeling that he knew for awhile that I was going to therapy, but… he waited until he was certain to say something." She added, "I recognize the irony by the way."

"The irony?" Madeline asked.

"That I want the people of this city to get the best mental health treatment possible … and I hide the fact that I'm getting treatment from my own husband."

She nodded in understanding. "What kept you from telling him?"

Martha thought on that and then said, "It wasn't that he wouldn't understand. But I knew he would worry. I didn't want that for him."

She added, "Also, if he knew just how bad the nightmares were getting, he would have asked you to stop working for Child Protective Services."

She frowned and muttered. "That's the first thing he suggested. He doesn't want to imagine me in those sorts of … situations."

Madeline put it more bluntly. "He doesn't want to see you suffer."

Martha bristled at the observation. She looked to the doctor and said, "Maybe he's not the only one who thinks that's the simplest solution."

She kept the focus on the topic at hand. "How did it end?"

"The disagreement?" Martha sat back, thought, and then answered, "We both had a few choice words with each other. I didn't like the tone he took with me. He didn't like my dishonesty. … But in the end, I apologized for lying to him. He said he was sorry for raising his voice. He was upset and worried for me. I explained that mostly I hadn't wanted him to be disappointed in me."

Madeline pointed out. "You didn't go to bed angry with each other."

"No," Martha said dryly. "We like to stay up and fight."

The doctor laughed a little and said, "I'd say you've got it down pat."

She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"The art of the fight," Madeline said. "We see it throughout our lives in all our relationships. Lovers, friendships, even parents and children. You're delighted with each other. Then you do something to upset each other. The two of you resolve the fight … Then you wake up and are delighted with each other again. Delight, rupture, repair, new delight."

Martha made a thoughtful sound and a smile inched onto her face. "So we fight well."

"Are you kidding?" Madeline said. "Your homework for this week is to get into another fight with him. Keep it up, and by the end of the month you'll both be boarding a flight to your second honeymoon."

(x)

Gotham City  
Present Day

Dr. Scott smiled at him. Bruce smiled back uneasily. It was impossible to feel comfortable when he was moderately certain that every move was being calculated or evaluated in some way, even by someone claiming harmless intent.

She asked, "Can I get you anything to drink? I've got tea and a couple sodas or water in the back."

He said, "No, thank you. I'm fine."

Madeline said, "You look so much like her."

Her words hit the center of him. He tried not to show that either. "People usually tell me that I look like my father."

"Ah, I never got to meet you dad, so I wouldn't know. You have her eyes though. Martha had very kind eyes."

Bruce quickly changed the subject. "You said that you saw my mother for therapy. For how long?"

"About six months," she said. "Your mother didn't suffer from any chronic mental health symptoms. She came in because she started having nightmares."

Her words awoke something inside of him. The flashes appeared somewhere, not in front of his eyes, but behind them. Pearls dropping. The growling voice of the man holding the gun. Blood streaming down into the cracks of the asphalt in the street. The light fading from his father's eyes. The memories tuned up at times during the day, but at night, that's when they really played their symphony. Bruce asked, "What was she having nightmares about?"

"A number of things," she said. "She felt very deeply for anyone suffering due to the poverty and crime here in Gotham."

Bruce remembered the look his mother would get on her face when she spoke about helping the lost souls in the mental health system. She spoke with passion. Anyone listening could hear the conviction in her voice. Bruce said, "From what I understand, a person can only see violence for so long before they start to absorb it."

"Was there someone who told you that?"

"No," Bruce said. "At least I don't think so."

Madeline asked, "So you've experienced it yourself?"

He began to feel himself being backed into a corner, which was frustrating because it was exactly what he had been concerned would happen if he came to the session. "My parents deaths didn't only affect me. It affects anyone who knew them. I see it happen frequently." In Jim Gordon's promise. In Alfred's every move, look, and spoken and unspoken word.

"You talk about it as if you're responsible for stopping the pain their deaths have caused others."

Another direct hit. It was like a game of battleship, except it was only taking five minutes to send all his ships sinking down into the water. When a game ends that quickly, you begin to wonder if it isn't rigged somehow. He reminded himself that Dr. Scott did treat his mother and no doubt she'd spoken of him. However, he'd also seen just out of the corner of his eye that she arrived at her office by police car. Did she work with the police in some way? If so, what kind of access did she have to files there? He decided to test it out. "Just my being alive and in Gotham causes pain to those closest to me."

Dr. Scott cast him a concerned stare. There didn't seem to be anything disingenuous about it, but Bruce had been wrong about that before. "Because you remind them? Of your parents and what happened?"

She'd stayed on topic. He continued to monitor. "Because they'll protect me at all costs, even if it means giving up their own lives." Something tightened in his chest. He pushed the feeling down, down, down, until it was nearly locked away entirely and made himself say, "Because I'm all that's left of Thomas and Martha Wayne."

The doctor's breathing changed. Her chest rose just a little more quickly than it had minutes ago. Bruce wondered if she knew she had a tell. He wondered if technically she was allowed to even have a tell at all. She spoke softly, "Tell me, Bruce. Is there anything that isn't your absolute and complete responsibility?"

He blinked, but did not answer.

She continued, "Or in your mind is there always something you should have seen, should have known, should have done to stop it?"

"To stop what?" he asked.

"All of it. Any horrible thing that's happened, but especially your parents' deaths."

Now Bruce definitely couldn't decide if she'd read any reports. It was an uncertainty, and those bothered him. Greatly. However, this new sensation stemming up through his body contained hurt and shame and regret. He stopped attending to outside threats and focused all of his energy on overcoming the new threat building inside him.

Madeline said, "Bruce, your mother came to see me because of nightmares, but at the root of it, she believed that she should have done more to save people and end the suffering around her. I diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress disorder."

He needed to buy himself time to sift through the unbearable feelings that threatened to swallow him up whole. So he asked a question that he already knew the answer to, "What's post-traumatic stress disorder?"

"I could pull off my copy of the DSM-V off my bookshelf, but basically PTSD is when a person is suddenly and unexpectedly devastated by an atrocious event and is then never the same. The trauma may be over, but it keeps getting replayed."

"Replayed?"

"Yes. Like a movie, but without the story. It's just…"

Flashes, Bruce thought.

She continued, "It's just fragments and traces of whatever happened."

"Doesn't that happen to anybody who's been through something upsetting?"

Madeline sat back and thought for a moment. "For a long time, that's what we thought. But it turns out some people experience something terrifying and they don't retain any vivid memory of it. So the actual traumatic event has very little to do with who gets PTSD and who doesn't."

Bruce asked, "What does it have to do with?"

"Two things," Madeline said. "When time passes, events can be bleached of their intensity. But with PTSD, the memory is completely intact."

"And the other?"

"Recently, it's been found that when parents are diagnosed with PTSD, their children are about four times more likely to experience the symptoms themselves should something traumatic take place."

Bruce felt himself breathing more quickly. Just like he'd noticed a change in Dr. Scott's breathing pattern, he could only imagine she noticed his.

Madeline said, "When I heard what happened to your parents, I knew that I needed to come back to Gotham. You blame yourself for their deaths, and if someone doesn't stop you, you're going to blame yourself for every bad thing that's ever happened so long as you perceive that if you'd just been smart enough, strong enough, and omniscient enough that you could have stopped it. It happened to your mother, and the same could happen to you. Like I said back at your home, your mother wouldn't want that for you. I promise you, Bruce, she wanted so, so much better than that for you."

Bruce wanted to leave. He wanted to get up, run out to the car to Alfred, drive away, and never ever return to this office again. But Dr. Scott had him now. He couldn't leave, not when his mother, who would never say anything to him ever again, was telling him to stay.

He stopped himself before he said aloud, D4. You sunk my battleship.

Madeline blinked and leaned down. "Bruce? Bruce, are you all right?"

His voice was barely a whisper. "Can you make the nightmares stop?"

"Yes." The doctor cleared her throat, but her voice still shook ever so slightly. It was in that moment that she seemed fully human to him for the first time. "We'll make them go away together."


	15. Signed, Sealed, Delivered

Jim paced up and down the hallway as they waited for an update on Lucy Grimwold's condition.

Harvey looked over at his partner from where he sat back comfortably in one of three blue plastic chairs all connected together and attached to the whitewashed wall. Harvey said, "Just in case you were wondering, you wearin' down a path in the linoleum ain't gonna get Sleeping Beauty to wake up any faster."

When Jim sighed it came out as more of a growl than he intended. He nodded in the direction of the nurse's station. "The longer we stay here the closer another victim is to getting that drug in their system."

Harvey said, "You think I don't know that? I want our little fire starter to wake up and start talkin' just as much as the next overworked underpaid public servant."

Jim shook his head. "We need to get answers." That was putting it lightly. What they really needed was to have gotten answers two days ago. But that was only part of the problem. Jim knew that they had ways of keeping things from you in hospitals, sometimes by accident, sometimes by design. What they needed were answers that were short and one-syllable.

Harvey looked to him. "Seein' as how the generally unconscious aren't much for conversation, why don't you sit your ass down?" He pulled out two pudding cups and two plastic spoons. "Enjoy the one thing this place gets right around here."

Jim narrowed his eyes at his partner.

"What?" He dug in. "It's called time management."

Jim could feel himself working back up to pacing again, or better yet, working up to he and Harvey splitting up to cover more ground. He was just about to tell Harvey what his own idea for time management was when someone spoke behind him.

"She's awake."

Jim and Harvey looked over. A short, squat nurse with dark skin and white hair blinked at them. She looked over with a dry expression, a face with too much makeup, and a voice that sounded like two packs a day. "You told me to tell you when she was awake."

Jim stepped forward. "Is she talking?"

The nurse motioned for them to follow her. "She keeps asking 'how many?'"

Harvey frowned as he stood up. "How many what?"

The nurse answered, "How many people she killed."

(x)

Lucy Grimwold lay in her hospital bed, gauze wrapped around her arms and most of her face. When she spoke her voice sounded like much like the nurse's, an after effect of smoke inhalation. "I don't remember what happened. One minute I was in my apartment. The next minute I was … setting fire to the building using a book of matches from my kitchen cabinet. It was like I wasn't myself. It was like … I was there watching everything happen outside myself."

Harvey glanced at Jim as if to say 'yeah, that'll hold up in court'.

Jim asked her, "Do you take any medications, Lucy?"

"No." She coughed loudly and said, "I hate pills."

Jim said, "Why don't you walk us through what happened when you came home from work?"

She answered, "I did what I always do when I come home from work. I walked inside, set down my keys, went through the mail, and started to unwind. Then before I knew it, I was reliving it all over again."

Harvey asked, "Reliving what all over again?"

"The fire," she said. "Last year my house caught on fire. I tried to get out, but every exit was blocked. The whole building went down in flames. I wouldn't have survived if the fire department hadn't arrived as quickly as they did. One of the firefighters ran inside and pulled me out."

Jim frowned. Then he asked, "This might seem like a strange question. But did you start seeing anyone for therapy afterwards?"

"Yes," she said, clearly surprised that he'd asked. "I go to see a doctor on the east side of town at Veteran's Services. We started having sessions right around-"

"A month ago?"

She blinked. "Yeah, h-how do you know about that?"

Harvey answered, "It matches the pattern we have on a couple other cases we believe to be linked." He asked. "Did you see anyone strange around your building? Anyone shifty, anyone that you don't typically see hangin' around?"

She shook her head. "No, everything looked like it usually does." She asked, "Am I being arrested? I mean … I set fire to my apartment building. People … I saw the news." Her eyes brimmed with tears. "People died."

Jim neared her just slightly. He bent down to her eye level. "Lucy? Look at me." She obliged him, and he said, "You are not the type to go around burning down buildings. We can see that."

Lucy looked like she might cry. "Believe me when I say that I have no idea what happened. I've never even so much as forgotten to pay a parking ticket."

Jim said, "I believe you. You're not being arrested. But as a precaution, the doctors here are going to have you stay under observation due to your injuries and the mental health concerns you've mentioned."

Lucy shook her head. She was clearly lost deep within her thoughts. "I just don't understand what's going on." She started to softly cry. "Why would I do something like that?"

Jim spoke to her in a soft voice. "We sent a blood sample of yours to our forensics department. If they find what we think they'll find, it may explain why you set those fires. The same drug that put you into the state you described would also exonerate your actions."

Lucy's tears continued. Jim wasn't completely sure that she'd heard him over her own thoughts which were no doubt filled with shock and shame. He reassured her that they'd be in touch, and Harvey instructed her to call them if she remembered anything at all out of the ordinary, no matter how small or unimportant it might seem.

Jim walked out of the room, and the same numbness he witnessed in Lucy he began to feel himself. Harvey talked, stream of consciousness, trying to put the puzzle of their case together from the limited pieces they had.

Jim sprung back to attention as Harvey's fingers snapped before his eyes. "Hey, Jim? Houston, do we have a problem? The people of planet Earth need you back on the ground."

He looked to Harvey with an aggravated glance, but at least it let his partner know he was checked back in. "I just can't stop thinking about Torres, Yanagi, and now Lucy Grimwold. And how many more innocent people this psychopath plans to drug."

Harvey shook his head. "Tell me about it. One minute you're home, going through your mail, the next minute you're out the door going on a murderous rampage."

Jim stopped in his tracks. "Wait. Harvey, what was that you said?"

"Okay, so technically, I suppose it's not a murderous rampage if you don't know you're doing it, but you know what I mean-"

"No. The mail." Jim felt the familiar sensation of adrenaline pumping through his veins. "The truck, the work station, her apartment. Every single one of them was-"

"Opening their mail," Harvey realized.

Jim picked up the pace and hurried down the hospital hallway back towards the car. Harvey sprung to life and chased after him, or would have, except he stopped to press his hand against his ribs. He took off after Jim muttering, "Goddamn cheapass fire escape… Nothin' works right in this city."

(x)

Dr. Leslie Thompkins had her work cut out for her. She moved quickly throughout the M.E. lab, collecting and organizing test results, blood samples, and the pieces of mail Harvey and Jim sent to her for analysis. She wore a white respirator over her face and thick latex gloves on her hands. The respirator muffled her voice as she debriefed Jim, Harvey, and Captain Barnes. "Bonus checks," she said, holding up each envelope and letter contained in their separate ziploc bags. She pulled down the respirator and continued. "Each person, Torres, Yanagi, and Griswold was sent a bonus check in the mail, and each one was coated with a white powder adhesive."

"Figures," Harvey sighed out. "The only time anybody in this town gets extra cash and it turns you psycho."

Lee nodded, sadly agreeing with him. "Now that I have a sample of the drug before it gets into the body, I understand how it's administered. The victim picks up the letter and immediately the powder is absorbed completely by the skin. There's no trace left of the drug except inside deeper layers of tissue and in the blood stream."

Captain Barnes frowned and asked, "Are you able to tell how this drug turns perfectly normal citizens into killing machines?"

Lee nodded. "I don't understand every part of how the drug works. But so far my theory is that the drug affects the CD45 cells of the adrenal glands. This sends adrenaline rushing through the body, and the person feels as though they are under attack. Normally, when the body is fueled by adrenaline you're alert and excited. Whatever's in this drug is turning that excitement to rage."

Harvey said, "That explains all the freak-outs at the crime scenes."

Lee added, "They react as if they were fighting for their lives in the heat of battle or the middle of a war zone or being consumed by flames."

Jim asked, "So if they're fighting for their lives, why are they creating the war zone?"

Leslie said, "That's where I'd need a few more doctoral level courses in neurology. But it's clear that they believe they are in danger, and they may even be recreating the scene of their original trauma."

Jim turned to Captain Barnes. "I'm starting to see why someone might be interested in seeing this drug taken by PTSD survivors."

Lee said, "Could you imagine if you sent this drug into a real war zone or a fire station or…"

Captain Barnes said, "A building full of trauma survivors like Veteran's Services."

Harvey said in a low voice, "The entire city would burn itself down."

Jim shook his head. "So if that's the goal, why not just do it? Why not just send it out to the masses? Why take people out one by one?"

Lee pointed to the blood samples that she'd collected from each victim. "So, when I first studied the blood samples from Torres and Yanagi, I noticed that less of the drug had been given to Yanagi. At first, I thought it was just a fluke. But now, Lucy Griswold's blood has even less of the active drug than the other two victims."

Harvey stood up straighter. "Is it just me? Or is this is startin' to sound like that story about the three bears?"

Energy filled Jim's voice when he said, "They're trying to find the right dosage. This is an experiment."

Harvey looked to his partner. "You know, like a doctor might work on, in some underground capacity?"

Jim glanced at his Captain. "We have to let Gotham know. More people could be opening their mail right now to find checks they'll never cash."

Captain Barnes started walking out of the M.E. lab followed closely by Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock. Barnes said, "Let me handle alerting the post office and Veteran's Services and minimizing media blowback. In the meantime, the two of you track down whatever psychotic excuse for a scientist put that drug into the mail in the first place."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everybody enough for keeping up with this story. I've been having a lot of fun with it, and I'm glad to see readers along for the ride. Have a lovely Thursday. My goal right now is to post another chapter on Tuesday after the new episode!


	16. My Body Is a Cage

The next morning Jim Gordon sat across from Dr. Scott. He arrived on time, but that didn't mean all parts of him were present. He and Harvey spent most the night and the early hours of the morning chasing down every shifty figure who dared to cross their path. Jim made some arrests. Harvey rattled some skulls, and they ended with a stake-out at the psychiatric wing of Veteran's Services. It was a productive night, in theory. But aside from ruling out the usual suspects, it had gotten him exactly nowhere, except deeper into debt after borrowing against his ever-dwindling sleep bank. You never realize how important sleep is until you miss a little, or in Jim's case, a lot.

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. The two aspirin he'd taken beforehand hadn't kicked in. He could still feel the throb of a headache pulsing just behind his eyes. He drank the coffee Madeline offered him, though he knew he needed more of a Hail Mary than any amount of caffeine could offer.

They sat in relative silence until Madeline observed ever so astutely. "Long night?"

"Yeah," Jim said. "Still working what we're now calling the Paycheck Pharmacist."

Madeline blinked and asked, "Why are you calling it that?"

Jim set down his coffee on the end table next to him. "Whoever's administering this drug to the victims is sending it through the mail. Average everyday people pick up their check one second, destroy the neighborhood the next."

She frowned. "I'm sick to my stomach just hearing about it. I can only imagine what it must be like for you, having a front row seat to the aftermath."

Jim noticed that the doctor jumped in quick today. Looked like she'd had her coffee, too. He cleared his throat. "About that. I meant to thank you for your help, both with speeding up the retrieval of case notes and for going in and getting Gruber to talk."

She smiled. Jim was the first to admit he was sleep-deprived, but even in this state, he could sense something sad behind that smile. "That's why they pay me the medium bucks." She kept on track. "How are the new elements of the case affecting you?"

Jim looked up at her and nodded, unsurprised by her redirection. "Last night, I started focusing on the motivations of the person behind this. Probably male. Post-graduate degree. No doubt has a noted history of academic accomplishments. He's cold and removed, given the detached intensity with which he's attacking his victims."

Madeline said, "I asked how this case was affecting you, and you rattle off the beginning of a profile of the criminal you're after. I should have been more clear. What kind of feelings is this case bringing up for you?"

Jim searched himself. "I feel like someone out there on the street is killing people faster than we can get to them, and I feel that we have to bring a stop to whoever's behind this."

"No," she said just above a whisper. "You're starting your sentences with 'I feel', but you're still describing actions."

Jim made a noise of discomfort and hoped his facial expression alone would cause her to cut him some slack.

She appraised him. "Are you putting up a wall? Already? We're only five minutes in."

He sat up straighter and raised a satiric eyebrow. "Do you really think telling me I'm putting up a wall is the best way to engage me?"

She seemed to hear that and rephrased herself. "So, when I see someone who's survived trauma, they'll sometimes answer in a way you just have. This one time I asked a police officer, who'd been placed on administrative leave, 'If you looked up and saw a car was heading right for you at full speed, how would you feel?' And he said…'I don't know how I'd feel, but I'd get the hell outta the way.'"

Jim half-smiled. He understood the sentiment all too well. "Smart plan."

"It was," she agreed. "But he lived in a world of actions, not feelings."

"That could be a strength, in the right situations."

"It is. People in your line of work who find they can suppress their feelings typically excel at what they do."

Jim sat back and smoothed down his tie. "You're making this whole bottling your feelings, putting up a wall decision sound like a reasonable one." When she said nothing, he continued, "So why do I feel like you just haven't gotten to the part where you say there's a problem?"

It earned a short laugh. "You're onto me," she said. Then, her voice became more serious. "Suppressing your feelings makes it possible to attend to the business of the world, but it comes at a price." She said, "That price is usually paid for in our relationships outside work."

He began to see what she was driving at. "You mean, Lee."

She shrugged and adjusted her glasses. "How is your relationship with Lee?"

Jim said, "We've had our … rough patches. I'd like to think most relationships couldn't withstand the types of things we've been through. I think that makes what we have all the more…"

She offered, "Substantial?"

He nodded, allowing it. "Meaningful."

Dr. Scott asked, "Does she know about Barbara? About what happened at the stained glass window?"

Jim gritted his teeth for a short moment. Right for the jugular every time. He looked at Madeline and said, "She knows because she was there when it happened."

Madeline flinched and sat up straighter. "She was there? When Barbara tried to kill herself?"

Jim paused and said again, "Like I said, most relationships wouldn't survive what we've been through." Her stare seemed to be asking for more, and Jim decided at this point he couldn't find much of a reason not to allow it. "We were both abducted by Barbara. She was sick and deluded … and armed. She wanted to kill us, because I'd found happiness with Lee after our relationship ended."

Jim watched Madeline's face pale just ever so slightly. "She punished you by trying to kill both you and Lee?"

He thought about his answer before saying, "Yes. Among other things."

"That's … a huge, devastating…” She decided upon, “It’s an unreal consequence, just for being with someone you love."

Jim wanted to assure her of how real it had been, but didn't think he could phrase it in a way that wouldn't have been impolite. "Thankfully, Barbara's plan didn't succeed. In part to Lee's quick thinking and thanks to my partner and everyone else who followed him to get us out of there."

Her lips thinned down and pressed together. She seemed to consider something before she asked, "Was there a part of you that wasn't sure anyone was coming to save you?"

"I'm sure there was," he said simply. "Though I try not to listen to that part. I haven't found it to be particular helpful in life or death situations."

"No, it certainly isn’t," she said. "But you did experience it, so … stick with it. When you were there with Lee, knowing that at any moment the two of you could die, what did it feel like?"

"I was upset."

Madeline watched him and said, "Was that all you felt?"

"No, I was…" His voice darkened just slightly. "Angry."

She said, "Take it deeper."

He looked up at her. "I was furious." He told her that. What he didn't tell her was that the anger, the fury had been a relief. It granted him clarity in a city of only gray. He remembered the cold feeling of that anger as he pointed his gun forward, smelling smoke and blood and sweat. His mind and body felt disconnected, bereft of energy and reason from the car accident, from the senselessness, from the drugs shot into his body. He said aloud to Madeline. "I wanted to kill Barbara for what she'd done so she could never harm anyone ever again."

Madeline said, "And underneath that?"

Jim began to feel hot and cold all at once. He closed his eyes. The reel began to play in its full splendor of sight, smell, and sound. His head began to dip. The headache drew strength from the onslaught of memories and pounded in his skull.

Madeline sat forward suddenly. She spoke in a calm, soothing voice. "It's okay. You're okay. Take a deep breath. Relax…" She breathed in loudly, and then breathed out in the same fashion.

Jim followed her lead. He caught his breath and expelled hard through his open mouth. He hadn't even realized until she'd given him the direction that he'd been holding his breath.

She continued to talk softly, "Feel the ground beneath your feet. Move your toes inside your shoes. You have solid ground beneath you. Today is Monday, October 12th. It's days and weeks since the event happened. This office is quiet. It's safe. It's secure. There's no danger here."

Adrift in the haze of his memories, Jim did each action as Madeline suggested. He felt his body beginning to relax as he listened to her speak. He waited until his breathing returned to normal and looked back up at her.

She stared back. As he began to relax his muscles, Madeline said, "I apologize-"

"No," Jim quickly said, sitting back and running his hands over his face. "You were just … doing your job."

"I was trying to get you in touch with your emotions, but I didn't mean to induce a flashback." When he didn't correct her, she asked, "That is what happened just now? You remembered things quickly and suddenly without warning?"

Jim cleared his throat. "I think my partner would call it 'the black box'. You don't open the black box."

Madeline offered up a crooked smile, surprisingly familiar to the one his parenter managed to dig up from time to time. She opened her mouth to say something, but then she changed gears. She asked, "Is this the first time you've ever experienced a flashback?"

"I've had memories or reminders crop up before, usually when things are quiet. But it's never…" He said, "It's never come out quite like that."

"Anger can be tricky that way. Mostly because it's a secondary emotion," she said.  
Jim frowned. "Secondary to what?"

"Sadness and fear," she said simply. "You tell yourself that you won't be able to handle the realization that you could have died. So you toss those thoughts and feelings somewhere else, so you don't have to look at them. Hence, the black box thing."

Jim began to realize why she'd used the analogy of putting up a wall. It was overdone, but at least part of it was true. He shook his head. "I still don't understand what can be gained from going back and re-experiencing something when the danger's already passed."

"Well, if we were just re-experiencing it for kicks, that would be pretty screwed up. But the nightmares, the flashbacks. It's your body's attempt at making sense of what happened. The thing is it's not something that happens on your schedule. It happens to you, just like that night with Barbara."

Jim asked, "So if I wanted to gain control, how would I do it?"

"Long story short, we'd need to find you an outlet. Is there anyone in your life who reaches out to you? Who wants to help you?"

Jim had the answer immediately. "Lee. In the past she's said she wants me to open up more."

"Are you able to?"

"At times. But … not as often as she'd prefer, I'm sure."

"What's stopping you?" When he came up without an answer, she asked, "Maybe you're trying to protect her?"

"I certainly don't want her having nightmares. Or worrying about me at all, not in her condition."

Madeline paused before she said, "Pregnant or not, like you said, if she's stuck with you this long through everything you've told me? Maybe she's stronger than you think." She glanced up to the right at the clock and looked at Jim. "Okay. We're at time."

Between his long night at work, experiencing a flashback in session, and the dull thumping of his headache, Jim hadn't even realized how much time had passed. He sat back and said, "Do you have another client?"

"Uh, no, actually," she said. "But I heard the fax machine come to life in the room next door. I'm betting it's the case notes coming through for Lucy Grimwold. I told your Captain I'd bring them in as soon as I had them."

Jim pushed himself to his feet and rested his right hand on his holster. "No time like the present. Do you need a lift to the office?"

She huffed a short laugh. "You're volunteering to spend another fifteen minutes with a psychologist hired to pick apart every word you say? You're braver than I thought."

Jim found himself smiling back. "On one condition."

"Name your terms, detective."

"As long as you can promise that no psychological terms or feeling words will be spoken for the duration of the car ride."

Madeline held up her pointer and middle fingers pressed together. "Scout's honor. Let me grab up those papers."

When she returned with a stack of papers barely able to be stapled together, Jim relaxed. It looked like she'd be spending most the ride reading anyway.


	17. Communication Breakdown

Lee arched her neck to look over Madeline's shoulder at the case notes, as they both rested against the black metal railing by Jim and Harvey's desks at the GCPD. She brought Madeline up to speed. "They each recreated the scene of their original trauma."

Madeline hmmed a thoughtful noise and asked, "How is the drug able to do that?"

"I sent over a sample and consulted with a neurologist working at Gotham University. The drug hits the adrenal glands but also the amygdala, where our memories are stored. It makes whoever is under the influence of the drug recreate the scene, we think, in order to give the trauma a different ending."

Madeline crossed her own arms and shivered just slightly. "That's pretty messed up."

"Yeah, you're not kidding," Lee remarked. "They experience everyone around them as an immediate threat while they're at it."

She leaned back in thought. "But they don't experience themselves as helpless."

Lee nodded and added. "They take on the role of their attacker. Though we're not sure entirely why the drug makes them do that."

She shrugged. "PTSD is all about memory, and repeating is a way of remembering."

Harvey rolled his eyes before he looked up overtop of his reading glasses. He picked up his phone as he said, "All right, ladies. We appreciate the debriefing, but I think we've had enough of Trauma 101 for the day."

Lee glanced surreptitiously over at Jim. He didn't say anything and kept his head down, because he was smart. But Lee detected the slightest hint of a smirk rising onto his face.

Madeline faced Harvey and said with more than a touch of attitude to her tone, "I'm sorry. Is our collective knowledge of the forensics of your case interrupting you?"

Harvey held the phone to his ear when he said, "What's that? I-I can't hear you." He pointed to the receiver and turned away. "I'm on a call."

Lee tried to stop herself from smiling, but found she couldn't help herself. She asked the doctor, "Madeline, do you mind sharing with us how that made you feel?"

Madeline stood up straight, as if to say 'I'm so glad you asked Lee.' "Actually, I'm feeling generally reserved, though a lesser person might feel a little hostile."

Harvey muttered something about how she'd know hostile when she saw it.

(x)

Madeline followed Lee's lead, and they moved away from the two detectives. She'd found herself drawn to the M.E. almost immediately, no doubt because they were both in the same line of work. But also because Lee was just one of those women. Whether you were male or female, you couldn't not look at her, couldn't not speculate about her.

Lee looked to her with a smile. "When you work in a building full of alpha males, you find yourself on the losing end of the exclusion game from time to time. I found the best way to deal with it is to play it cool."

Madeline smiled slightly. "I'm sure you've had to navigate that more than once here. But no matter what social setting you're in whether it's a dinner party, fifth grade, or the inner workings of a police station, you've gotta learn to pick your battles, negotiate relationships..." She looked back at Harvey and sighed. "Pretend to like people we don't, pretend not to like people we do."

Lee said, "It's the high school cafeteria all over again. Just with more guns."

She and Madeline walked back towards the M. E. lab. Madeline spoke softly so no one would overhear, "Oh, I hear congratulations are in order."

"Thank you." She touched her stomach self-consciously. "We're both very excited."

Madeline asked, "Got any names in mind?"

"No," she said. "Not yet."

"You've still got plenty of time," she said. "You and Jim make a cute couple. You'll have cute kids."

Lee's smile widened at the compliment, and then she said, "By the way, I know you're seeing Jim for therapy, and I know everything is completely confidential. So I don't want you to worry about me asking questions about anything you talk about."

Madeline said gratefully. "I appreciate it."

"Though …" Lee said. "I was wondering. Do you think it might help if I were to attend one of his sessions sometime?"

She drew in a thoughtful breath before she said, "Well. I'll tell you what. Let Jim know that you're interested in that, and tell him to bring it up at our next session."

Lee gave her a look. "You know, Dr. Scott, I did study psychology in med school."

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "Well, then you see what I just did there."

Lee said, "I know he's mandated to attend. It's a good strategy to at least give him some control over who's there and who's not."

Madeline shrugged and said, "Still, I meant what I said. Ask him. Can't hurt." The moment passed, and she asked, "By the way, has it been confirmed that this Paycheck Pharmacist is only targeting people who have recently been seeking treatment for PTSD?"

Lee answered, "That's what we're seeing."

"And only those being seen at Veteran's Services?"

Lee nodded. "That's the pattern so far. Frankly, I hope the pattern stops there."

"Me too." Madeline mused on that. "Me too." She looked up and said, "Would you mind if I excuse myself for a moment? I just realized that I need to make a phone call."

"Sure," Lee said. "Thanks for the consult."

"Likewise," she said as she began to walk away.

Madeline hurried briskly back up to the conference room where her files, laptop, and paperwork remained. She sorted through the notes in her briefcase, found the number, and dialed.

The crisp British-accented voice of Alfred Pennyworth answered, "Good evening, you've reached Wayne Manor. To whom am I speaking?"

"Hello, Mr. Pennyworth. This is Madeline Scott."

Any brightness left his tone. "I'm sorry, doctor. Master Wayne is deposed at the moment-"

"Please don't hang up." The touch of desperation in her voice no doubt gave Alfred pause and Madeline said, "Look, I'm not even sure that I have the authority to call you with this. But it's come to my attention that the police are working a case where clients who are newly diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder are being targeted."

"And why should that concern Master Bruce?"

"Because I just diagnosed him with PTSD yesterday. All my notes are entered electronically on a secure network. I'm currently not sharing my case notes with anyone inside or outside of Gotham. There's no reason anyone should know except myself and you, his guardian. But I …" _I just can't lose another one._ "But, I just want to make sure every precaution is taken."

His voice darkened and he went straight to business. "How are they being targeted?"

"There's a drug being sent through the mail. It's a powder attached to checks. It's absorbed through the skin. Please don't have Bruce touch any piece of mail that comes into that house until after they've caught whoever is doing this."

There was a long pause on the line. For a moment, Madeline wondered if the call had been dropped. Then Alfred said, "I can assure you any mail that comes into this home will be thoroughly inspected. If any tampered mail is sent to him, it'll have to get past me first."

She breathed a little easier. She wondered … No, no, if she dug deep down, she knew a huge part of what she'd done had been for her own piece of mind as well as for Bruce's well-being. "I'm just realizing that I should have asked you to keep this matter as private as possible, before I told you."

"Yes," he said. "I imagine this is just the sort of thing the officials would not like to see plastered all over the evening news, especially due to a leak from inside their own system."

So somehow Alfred knew that she worked at the station. That told her a number of things about his level of perception, his reach, and his dedication in protecting Bruce. "Yes, you'd think I would have considered that."

For the first time since she'd spoken to him, he didn't sound like he wanted to rip her counseling license to shreds. "Not to worry, Doctor. I shall be discretion himself."

"Thank you," she said, trying to keep the surprise she felt out of her voice.

"And you." With that, they hung up.

Madeline walked outside of the conference room on the second floor and looked down upon the gritty bustle of the police station. From the far end of the station's main floor, Harvey Bullock jumped up from his chair and grabbed up his leather jacket and hat. Jim Gordon followed after him, keeping pace alongside Harvey.

Just then some movement caught Madeline's eye, and she saw Lee standing just outside of the bullpen, watching Jim and Harvey take off from the station. On the sidelines, Lee pursed her lips and lightly held her right hand against her stomach.

Madeline turned her gaze back to the front door of the station. A frown of concern settled upon her face as the two detectives left her sight altogether. She leaned her forearms against the railing and whispered, "Be careful out there."


	18. Break on Through (To the Other Side)

Harvey and Jim took off from the station and quickly piled into their squad car. Harvey said, "Dispatch got the call ten minutes ago. The fight broke out on the floor of the editing room at Gotham's Channel 6 Newsroom. They said their cameraman, Paul Henderson, ran out of his office, shouting nonsense at the top of his lungs, and just started throwing punches into whatever sap got near him."

Jim buckled his seatbelt as they took off into the heart of the city towards the news tower. "Let me guess. He'd just finished checking his mail."

Harvey flipped on the red and blue barlights and said, "That and two weeks ago he received his official PTSD diagnosis, according to human resources. He got called out to film the home of a woman who just lost her two kids in a gang war shootout. When the crowd saw him pull out his camera from the truck, they turned on him. The HR rep said they beat him within an inch of his life."

"Hell hath no fury like a neighborhood seeing their grief exploited for ratings."

Harvey said, "Last thing they told me was that he was like 'a thing possessed'. But, they were able to get him behind closed doors in one of their empty editing rooms." He said, "Only thing I love more than walking into a domestic dispute is coming across a brickhouse of a guy just lookin' to rip everyone to shreds."

Jim looked down at the face of his watch. "A lot can happen in ten minutes."

"In this city? A lot can happen in ten seconds." Harvey's jaw set in determination as he stepped on the gas.

(x)

The editing room held Paul Henderson captive, for the moment. Barlights from the ambulances dispatch sent to the location lit up the room in waves. Jim and Harvey stood in the middle of the news center, looking in on a six foot six Caucasian man in his late forties. Paul screamed at the top of his lungs and banged his fists against the windows and the door, doing everything except foaming at the mouth.

Harvey crossed his arms and relaxed his stance. "I say we just leave him in there, let him get it out of his system. That drug's gotta wear off sometime."

Jim looked to Harvey. "Yeah, but when it does, two times out of three it kills the person who takes it. The odds aren't on our side with this."

"Yeah, I don't know if you've noticed, Jim, but that seems to be a running theme with us."

Someone screamed as the handle of the door rattled loudly and the chair holding to the door shook, threatening to break. The other employees of the newsroom strayed from the door, keeping to the edges of the room. They were their viewers personified, equally unwilling to get close and unwilling to look away.

Jim looked into the eyes of the man in the room. Paul Henderson breathed heavily, sweat dripping from his hair and down the sides of his face. Paul narrowed his gaze straight at Jim from behind the shatter-proof window. All Jim was missing was the billowing red flag, and all Paul was missing was the bull horns. The man rushed the door, slamming hard against the wall and window, doing his best to break through.

Harvey responded, pulling out his gun and keeping it at the ready. The second Paul saw the gun, a flip switched. He broke out into a fit of rage, screaming obscenities and swinging his fists. The walls of the room muffled his curses and the sick bang of his fists into the walls, but not nearly enough. 

Jim looked to Harvey and said, "Put away your gun.”

Harvey spoke in a deceptively calm voice. "You know I got an even better idea. Why don't I open the door, put the gun on the ground, and kick it over to him." He geared up and shouted. "What the hell are you talkin' about?! This guy wants nothing more than to paint the floor with us."

"That's because he's perceiving us as a threat."

"Yeah, and you know what? He's right. He knows we've got him cornered."

Paul stared back at them, his eyes angry slits. Jim responded by putting up his hands and making his face as easy and approachable as he could, given the circumstances.

Harvey sent him a look of disbelief and demanded, "You mind telling me just what the hell you think you're doing?"

Jim said, "I'm going in there."

Harvey dropped his gun and a wince momentarily tightened his face. A there-he-goes-again expression. "Settle down, Dr. Phil. This is not a hostage negotiation. He's not standing on a bridge trying to off himself. If you think this is a situation you got under your control, you're even more certifiable than I thought."

Jim said, "He's unarmed. He's sweating. The physical exertion has got to be getting to him."

Harvey said, "Yeah, that's when they keel over. If he's anything like our girl, Lucy, he'll snap out of it when he wakes up-"

"If he wakes up," Jim said urgently. "This is an experiment gone wrong. We can't lose another one."

Harvey groaned and ran his hand down his face. He muttered, "Why you gotta make everything so goddamn complicated?"

"The way I see it, it's simple." Jim pointed at Paul Henderson. "We stay out here, he could die. We go inside, he might live."

His partner shook his head. They'd been here, in this exact moment ten times over.

Jim looked at him and asked, "You got my back?"

Harvey said angrily, "Like it would stop you if I didn't?" Harvey steeled himself and crept up. He pushed himself up against the side of the doorway, staying out of Paul Henderson's eyeline, gun held tight in both hands.

Jim pulled aside the chair and carefully opened the door. He stood in the center of the doorway, facing Paul. The man shivered and shook, breathing heavily less than ten feet away from where Jim stood. 

He held up his hands in surrender. "Paul? Nobody here wants to hurt you. I just want to talk."

Paul Henderson growled, like a man who could always start a fight and end a fight by ripping out your throat. "Stay back!" he bellowed. "I'm warning you!"

"I won't come any closer," Jim said. "I was just thinking about how many people you must have in your life." He did a quick assessment of the man. He saw a wedding band. "You're married. Maybe you've got a family."

The man's face swelled red and he balled his hands up into white-knuckle fists. "Leave my family out of this!"

Jim felt his heart rate kick up. He nodded cooperatively. "I know you may not believe me, but I'm here to help." He looked Paul right in the eyes when he said, "You don't have to go through this alone."

For the slightest moment, Paul's face softened. He blinked, and Jim watched his words affect the man in front of him. Then, the moment passed, and in the next moment, rage pulled back the corners of Paul's mouth.

Jim took a step backward. "Uh, feel the ground beneath your feet. Remember to breathe. You're secure in this building. You're perfectly safe."

Paul's muscle tensed. His pupils dilated and he screamed a war cry.

Jim breathed out, "Oh, crap." He jumped and ducked out of the way as the man came barrelling toward him. Jim caught the man's left arm, and at the same moment, Harvey ran into the room and grabbed a hold of Paul's right arm. Together they forced him back inside the room.

"Get him up against the wall!" Jim shouted.

Paul bucked and swung his fists wildly while Harvey struggled to keep his grip. His partner retorted, "Right, -now- you want me to bodycheck this guy!"

The man yanked his arm out from Jim's grasp. In one quick motion, Paul hauled back and punched upward, catching Jim in the jaw. Harvey grabbed Paul by the collar and using all his strength, he pounded the man up against the wall of the editing room. Paul's back made contact with a sickening slap, and as they grappled, they knocked over a desk and the computer that rested on top of it.

Paul kicked Harvey in the shin, and Harvey let off a sharp bark of pain. The blow gave Paul the moment he needed, and he pulled back and landed a solid left hook into the detective's cheekbone. Harvey went down like a ton of bricks, but he wasn't down for the count yet. In knocking Harvey down, Paul left himself wide open. Jim launched himself forward and landed a solid punch that sent Paul's head kicking backward. The punch dazed Paul, and Harvey shot back up. He and Jim shared a quick glance and together they bull-dozed into the cameraman until they had him up against the wall by his shoulders.

Paul hollered and struggled, but it was a losing battle. His breathing became shorter and more shallow. Soon, instead of holding him up against the wall, they were trying to lower him down to prevent any further injury as the man, who had the size and stature of a vending machine, passed out onto the floor.

Harvey knelt down, unwilling to drop his vigilance, even as the man sunk down onto the floor of the editing room. He pulled Paul's hands behind his back and cuffed him, God forbid the man got a second wind. Above them, Jim tried to catch his breath as the familiar scent of his own sweat and blood filled his nostrils. 

He took out of his phone and made a call downstairs to the ambulance. "This is Detective Gordon. The threat has been neutralized, but we're going to need an EMT up here immediately."

Harvey pulled himself to his feet, his right cheek swelling red. He sat down hard in one of the chairs, reached into his coat, and pulled out his flask.

Jim looked over at him, while he worked on getting his breathing in check. "You always keep that on you?"

"Just ever since I heard the words 'Meet Jim Gordon. He's your new partner.'"

Jim let out a sigh as Harvey kicked back the flask and took a long swig.


	19. Can't Stand Losing You

The ambulance whirled its red lights and siren as it sped off to Gotham General, carrying Paul Henderson inside.

Jim jogged over, heading back towards Harvey. "He's got a pulse. Same as with Lucy Grimwold. It's faint, but it's there." He stared forward in thought. "Hopefully, he'll wake up and have something to tell us."

Harvey tenderly touched his right cheek and said, "I would've asked him about it while we were in there, but we didn't exactly have time to talk."

Jim smirked and the simple movement caused him immediate pain. He flinched at the sting, and he ran his tongue over his teeth, appreciating the fact that they were all accounted for after the throwdown.

Harvey asked point blank. "You mind telling me what in the hell that was back there?"

Jim said, "I thought if I was calm and talked sense he might regain some self-control. It started to work, didn't it?"

"Yeah, you're as good a therapist as Maddie is a homicide detective. Next time you two decide it's opposite day, do me a favor and let me know. I'll put on a pair of pumps, go Vegan, and knock off the nearest jewelry store."

Jim didn't have a particularly long list of things he'd pay to see, but that one would be up there. He reached up and gingerly checked his jaw. He felt the swell of a knot growing just underneath his chin. "That man had a solid uppercut."

Harvey started to amble back towards their car. "If he survives this, he could have a promising career in the heavyweight boxing division."

Suddenly, down the street a blue van jutted forward from its parking space. Its tires let off a short squeal, and the van took off down the street. Jim frowned as he looked at the license plate. "CVX-319."

Harvey groaned as he held his side. "Look, if you're gonna do everything you just did and then start talking like a robot, we may as well just haul you down to the nuthatch now-"

"The van!" Jim shouted as he broke into a run. "It's the same one parked outside Lucy Grimwold's apartment building!"

Harvey's eyes widened, and he barrelled forward, using every ounce of energy he had left to run towards the squad car. He climbed in and started the engine, and they chased after the van already halfway down the city street. Harvey immediately got on the CB, "All units, we are in pursuit of a suspicious vehicle, dark blue Ford C-Max SEL, license plate CVX-319 leaving the crime scene at Gotham's Channel 6 News Building. All units respond. Repeat, all units respond."

Harvey revved the car's engine and sped down the road, stop signs and potholes be damned.

(x)

Inside the van, Dr. Moon felt his heart race as he swerved around the nearest corner and pounded his foot on the gas. Sweat began to pool on his forehead and streamed down the sides of his face. He just had to get to the next traffic signal and pull into the parking garage on 6th and Madison.

While Dr. Moon had never run from the police before, he knew how to lose someone when he wanted to. He drove like a maniac, and once again, he could appreciate the nerve his desperation gave him. He ran through red lights, clipped passing cars, and just barely cleared it around the next corner.

The logic based side of his brain cleared its throat and spoke up in the midst of the mind-numbing chaos. It occurred to him that it didn't matter if he died in a car crash, ran into the side of a building, or got hit by a Mac Truck in oncoming traffic. If he didn't escape the police and bring his research back safely to his employer, he'd beg for death before it was over.

The thought kicked up a fresh throe of adrenaline. Dr. Moon felt his heart pumping away with a ragged fierceness that scared him. He sped through an alleyway, knocking into garbage cans, recycling bins, and mailboxes. He could see the flashing blue and red lights of the squad car behind him, but every time he checked in his rear view mirror, he gained more and more distance between them. He recklessly skidded onto a side street and out onto the main road, just barely scraping past a tractor trailer coming in the opposite direction. The tractor trailer's driver laid on his horn and threw on his brakes, effectively blocking the police car in its path.

Dr. Moon heard the engine of the van roar and took off into the city. He pulled into the parking garage owned by his employer. After taking the ramp down to the basement, he carefully drove his scratched and mauled car down into the underground lanes underneath the city.

The roads you had to know were there to travel. The roads that all led back to Indian Hill.

(x)

Harvey cursed and laid on his horn as a tractor trailer blocked his path. Once he realized it was a losing battle, he maneuvered the car backwards back down the alley the way they came. He corrected and returned to the main road to find the streets completely empty of the dark blue van.

He banged his fist against the top of his steering wheel. "Are you kidding me? You have got to be freakin' kidding me!" He yelled. "How the hell did we lose this fuckwad?!"

Jim spoke calmly, matching Harvey's rage with reason. "He must have had a plan. We'll circle back around. He couldn't have gone far."

They drove around the five block radius, checking every driveway, every parking space, every side street. They found no trace of the van. "I can't believe this. We had him." Harvey breathed a heavy, angry sigh. "Un-freakin'-believable."

Jim frowned, shaking his head as he scanned the streets.

The CB sparked to life. It was the Captain. "Squad car 316, come in. Gordon, do you have him?"

Jim picked up the CB. "Negative, sir. I repeat, negative. We lost him."

The Captain addressed every squad car en route to the scene. "All units advance. We have an ATB on a dark blue Ford van with city plates, CVX-319. He couldn't have gone far."

Jim's face fell slack, and he again he felt the shiner delivered by Paul Henderson throb with pain. He looked desperately for their mark. "C'mon, Harvey. Tell me you see something."

"Just the same thing I always see, Jim," he sighed out. "Only the finest back alleys in all of Gotham."

(x)

Dr. Moon heard his noisy, gasping breaths press out of his body as he slowed down his speed and reached his destination. He pulled up to a large metal entrance and put on his brakes. He showed his ID to the guard on post at the hidden entrance of the Indian Hill facility. He was unceremoniously waved through.

As he drove into underground parking garage, the doctor fell into autopilot. He felt numb, and he realized the numbness went a long way down and a long way back.

Somewhere far back in his mind, a voice spoke up urgently. You have to act. You have to run. You have to do -something-. Just what are you going to tell Strange this time? The voice bellowed angrily. WAKE UP! ANSWER ME!

"Dr. Moon isn't in right now," he answered aloud without energy. "Leave a message at the beep."

He pulled the van into an enclosed parking space, as he had so many times before. Quite suddenly, he thought of the mice he often used for his experiments. He always found himself shocked how in moments of true terror the mice didn't flee. Instead, no matter what the danger, they always returned home.

He understood the mice and their raw instincts now more than ever.

He felt so panicky, so unsure of what to do next or how to do it, that the sound of Dr. Strange's voice coming over a loudspeaker provided an oddly welcome relief.

"Dr. Moon," he drew out. "From your home in Gotham, to the news tower, and now a cop car chase through the city and into the belly of our facility. You've have quite the exhilarating day."

"I've worked tirelessly. That's how progress is achieved." It was weak said.

Hugo Strange spoke calmly, like a father to his child. "You have made progress. Unfortunately, that's never been the problem. Too little, too late, good doctor. This is where your path ends."

He choked out, "No." The tears came now.

"Take heart, Dr. Moon. Death is not the end. As you well know, it's only an illustrious new beginning."

He used his words to fight for his life. "There's still one more subject! This one could be the key to everything!" He thought he was empty of rage, but he was wrong. It was only delayed. He screamed, "It's not too late! IT'S NEVER TOO LATE!"

Wisps of smoke curled out from pipes in the corners of the room, and Dr. Moon looked up into his rear mirror to see a solid garage door closing him in.

Dr. Strange said with finality. "It's never too late, doctor. Until it is."

The room went chillingly silent, save for the slam of the metal door behind him and the hiss of smoke from the pipes. Dr. Moon's eyes were as wide as door knobs. He wanted to run, to scream, to make a break for it, and also his scientific brain knew it would all be in vain. Smoke filled the small metal room, the van, and finally his lungs.

His brain cells were dying. He understood the nasty business of death all too well from years of medical training. In their death, the brain cells sprung forth one last image. He saw himself as a young doctor, eager to discover, committed to his craft, his eyes full with hope for the future.

As Dr. Moon breathed his last breath, he envied, despised, and loved that young man. That young man who started on a path blissfully unaware that each step brought him closer to an enclosed parking space filled with deadly smoke in an old beat-up van at Indian Hill.


	20. Okay I Believe You But My Tommy Gun Don't

Gotham City

5 Years Ago

"So, how are things going?" Dr. Scott asked once they'd both taken a seat.

Martha said, "Better. As far as the nightmares go."

Dr. Scott nodded and asked, "And how are you feeling today?"

"I don't know where to begin." She corrected herself. "Yes, I do. I'm furious."

She frowned. "Did something happen?"

Martha fiddled with the string of pearls around her neck and stared down into the carpet of the office. Her body was here, but her mind was somewhere else. "One of the children that I met. He was smart, not book smart, but clever. He took a video on his phone of his father beating his younger brother with a baseball bat. When we asked him if anyone was hurting him, he showed it to us."

Her eyes widened. "You watched it?"

Martha's voice took on a frustrated tone. "Well, what else was I supposed to do? He held it up right in front of me."

The doctor paused and sent her a thoughtful look. "I apologize if what I said sounded like an accusation."

She sighed and threw up her hand. "No, no, I… I know you didn't mean for it to come across that way. I'm just … I'm-"

"You're furious," she provided.

Martha shook her head. "He wouldn't stop. This little boy with little arms and little hands was tied up. He couldn't move. He tried to escape. He fought and he fought, and he cried…" She pressed her lips together and clenched her eyes shut. She continued to speak, but in a breaking, childish voice. "He cried and he cried and he cried. He begged for him to stop."

The doctor frowned and held out a tissue box. At first, Martha looked like she might refuse, but then, she accepted them.

Martha dabbed her eyes and said, "When his father finally did stop, he… his brother was unconscious. He was slumped to the side like a rag doll. Bleeding and bruised and … broken."

Madeline watched her carefully before she said, "It broke your heart."

She wasn't able to look the doctor in the eye, but she nodded emphatically.

The doctor asked softly, "...Was he your son's age?"

The nodding continued, almost becoming rocking.

"So you weren't just watching a stranger get horribly abused. You were watching your son get abused, too."

She sniffed back and looked down at the wet tissues in her hand. "Before I had children, I understood somewhere that parents have a soft spot for other kids who remind them of theirs. Now that I have a child of my own, I know that it's so much more than that." She placed her hand on her heart. "Having a child is like having your heart walking around outside your body. They're you, but … they're not you. Anything can happen to them at any time, and there's nothing you can do to stop it."

Madeline reacted quickly. "That thought about your son. 'Anything can happen at any time and there's nothing you can do to stop it.' Is that thought true?"

"It is, it's …" Martha re-evaluated her wording. "Part of it is true."

"Which part isn't true?"

She softened her voice. "There are things I can do to keep my son safe."

Dr. Scott nodded. "There's probably a list of a hundred or more things you already are doing to keep him safe."

She smiled through her sadness. Then all at once the sadness flooded through, consuming her once more.

The doctor waited patiently, giving her time to grieve.

Martha took in a deep breath and released it, before saying, "I just can't help thinking… What about the rest of the children? What about this boy, his brother?" She added, "Whatever I'm doing, it's not enough."

Madeline said, "I think you've already made immense changes in the lives of these children. I don't understand why you're not giving yourself credit."

She huffed a guilty, tired sound. "That's because you don't know what I was -really- thinking about while I watched that video."

The room became so quiet that they could have heard a pin drop. Madeline said, "When I was first starting out, I might have tried to remind you of all the good you've done for these children. Listed it out, made a case for all your effort and hard work. But I think … you're saying that there's another part of you, a darker part, that frightens you."

Martha looked up. She bit her bottom lip before she said, "There's one part of me that feels devastated for the parents who harm their children, knowing they must have somehow survived living through decades of abuse themselves. Then there's another part of me." She whispered, "That darker part of me, that wants to take that parent from the video in a room somewhere and kill him."

The doctor blinked. "Did you do that? Did you take him into a room somewhere and kill him?"

"Of course, not," she quickly said. "I would never-"

"You would never do that to someone. Thinking and doing are two very different things."

"They don't feel very different."

Madeline shifted in her seat and said, "So I'm gonna do that thing where I talk about another client I've seen without using his name or giving any defining characteristics..."

Martha half-smiled back at her. "It's okay." She added, "Maybe you'll be secretly talking to one of your clients about me one day."

That caused a real smile to break out on her face, the image of that. Dr. Scott said, "I was seeing this soldier who'd just returned from Afghanistan. He confessed to me that there was a part of him that hated the violence and the injustice and the chaos of war. But there was another, darker part of him that loved killing people. He enjoyed torturing people to get information. And he was fascinated with how people looked when they died."

Martha's eyes widened and she froze upon hearing what the doctor told her.

Madeline pointed directly at her. "And I tried very hard not to look like you do just now when he told me about that."

She blinked and asked, "How did he change that part of himself?"

"He didn't," Madeline said bluntly. "He acknowledged and accepted that those dark thoughts were a -part-of him." She said, "Just like you fantasizing about killing that father who brutally abused his sons … It's not all of you. It's just one little part."

Martha shivered when she said, "I know, but … whenever I feel that part taking over, it scares the hell out of me."

(x)

Gotham City

Present Day

Jim and Harvey checked in with Barnes, and they did only what two detectives who lost their mark could do. They took their licks and went back to work with a vengeance. Harvey pulled up the license number and address registered to the van from the DMV database while Jim sat down at his desk, running through his paperwork on the case. He knew it was a long shot, but he hoped that if he just looked long enough that it might all come together, like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

Jim looked up as his partner left to go sign out the squad car. At the same moment, he saw Lee standing only a foot from his desk. He sent a smile her way.

Lee reached out and touched his chin tenderly. "Rough day, detective?"

Jim winced a little and said, "Had a little misunderstanding with a cameraman who loosely resembled Sasquatch."

"Just another day at the GCPD?"

Jim smiled dryly. "If we get that saying chiseled in stone and mounted up on the wall, it could be our new motto."

Lee looked at him sympathetically. "I heard you almost had him."

"Yeah," Jim breathed out. "Well you know what they say about almost."

"You'd know better than me. I don't think I've ever held a horseshoe or a hand grenade." When Jim huffed a short laugh, Lee said, "I also heard that you tried to talk this last guy down."

"It was working, until you know, it wasn't." He spoke with determination. "I just have focus on finding this blue van. We've got a license plate. That's a start."

"You can't catch 'em all. But if anyone can get this one, it's you." She leaned down and kissed him gently.

Jim stared deeply into her eyes. Lee had what he sometimes heard the old timers refer to as Spanish eyes. He found himself getting lost there once more. "You sound pretty sure about that."

"Who's taking bets? I'll put money on it."

Jim looked around. "I'll talk to Alvarez, have him put you down for twenty."

Lee narrowed her eyes at him. "Wait, you're serious?"

"No." He arched his neck and kissed her again. "Though it's really just a matter of time before someone sets up a system for that."

She looked around the station. "Something's telling me I probably shouldn't plan to wait up for you tonight."

Jim nodded. She was getting good at sensing a stake out before it happened. "We got Dr. Frederick Moon's address off the license plate. I doubt he'll be home in the recliner, watching his soaps, but ..."

"But stranger things have happened," Lee said.

She didn't know the half of it. Jim turned back to his desk. "I'm just gonna sort through some paperwork here. Try to clear my head before we take off."

"Smart plan." Lee walked away, looking at him over her shoulder. "I'll see you in the morning."

Jim called after her. "Looking forward to it."

When she left, Jim took stock of his desk. If his mother had been there to see it, she would have said, 'It looks like a tornado touched down.' He started looking for the fax Madeline had given them from Veteran's Services, unsure if he'd left it on his desk or not. If he didn't find it, that was alright, too. Sorting out the top of his desk was soothing. He threw out some very elderly post-it notes, organized his call log, and began going through papers set off to the side that morning.

Jim went into soft neutral, still aggravated about how they'd lost their mark, thinking about how Paul Henderson had slipped out of his state of rage, and wondering how much coffee he'd need to stay awake for all-nighter outside Dr. Moon's one-story home. He barely even registered that he'd opened up the envelope until he stared down at …

A bonus check. For Jim Gordon. Courtesy of Gotham City Police Department.

He sucked in a shuddering breath and dropped the check as if it had been poker hot. He felt a tingling sensation stemming through the tips of his fingers and down through his hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Jim shot up from his desk, knocking over his chair, as he ran blindly towards the back of the station. He collided right into another officer, who cried out "hey!", and nearly knocked him over. Jim's breathing intensified, and he could feel his heart threatening to beat right out of his chest.

Dread sunk down deep in his stomach as he realized what would quickly happen next. He looked up, and the walls of the police station began to blur and flicker, like a poorly running computer program. He saw Barbara appear in the distance, disappear, and appear only inches before his face. He cried out and backed away. He could smell the sweet vanilla scent of her perfume. She looked resplendent in her ivory wedding gown, which had a satiny expensive look. She would have been a beautiful blushing bride, if it weren't for the wide, unblinking look of murder in her eyes.

Barbara giggled and beckoned to him, putting up her pointer finger and pulling it toward her playfully. "What's the matter, Jim? Don't you want to play?" She threw back her head and laughed. "It's so rude to leave a game, before it's finished."

The hallway swayed and looped, like the walls of the building had turned into funhouse mirrors. Jim ran as fast as his legs could carry him, through each apparition of Barbara, back towards the interrogation rooms.

Yes, that was it. An empty interrogation room. He could lock himself inside.

If he could get there. His legs felt heavy, and it became almost impossible to walk. It felt like moving through tar. "No," he breathed out, sweating profusely, losing steam. "No!"

He felt his head loll back, and he very nearly lost his footing. He realized quickly that he may only have seconds. He grabbed and discarded the gun at his side, his pepper spray, his side arm and …

"Jim."

Lee stood at the opposite end of the hallway. She looked at him with equal parts alarm and concern. "Jim, what's wrong?" She hurried toward him. "Are you okay?"

Jim tried to cry out, No! NO! Lee, whatever you do, stay back!

But his mouth wouldn't move. He suddenly realized just how much anger he'd been holding back over the day, weeks, and months at the GCPD. It rushed to his head now, overwhelming nearly every part of him.

He felt his arms moving of their own accord. It was like Lucy Grimwald said. He watched himself from outside himself. Now, he watched as he reached down the side of his right leg.

He still had his .22 strapped down at his ankle. In cool, robotic movements, he snapped open the holster, removed his weapon, and leveled the gun forward.

In his mind, Jim kicked, screamed, cursed, beat against the proverbial walls of his mind, commanding himself to stop. But then, the movie screen appeared. The trauma began to replay.

Barbara returned, blocking his field of vision. He knew she wasn't there, understood it so completely. But she looked so lifelike, so human, so threatening, peering down at him.

He felt Barbara's hot breath on his cheek. "Do you want to shoot me, Jim?"


	21. Dismantle. Repair.

When one of the officers told him what was happening, Harvey Bullock bolted across the station. He looked down at Jim's desk and saw a ripped envelope and a bonus check staring back at him.

"Oh, no, no, no. Oh, hell, no..." He broke back into a run, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Maddie standing only a few feet away. She zeroed in on all the officers running toward the hallway.

She fell into stride beside him. "Harvey, what's going on?"

Harvey stopped, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to him, hard. "You need to get out of here. Now."

He shocked himself by how viscerally the words came out. He shocked Maddie too. First she froze. Then she nodded, turned, and went for the exit.

Harvey had enough time to think 'there's a first time for everything', before he raced towards the back of the police station. He skidded to a stop as he reached the hallway entrance, to see Jim Gordon leveling his .22 straight at his fiance. Lee stood in front of him, her arms held up in submission. Jim breathed heavily, his hand shaking as he pointed the gun at her.

Harvey called out, "Lee, he picked up the check with the drug! Get out of there!"

Jim Gordon immediately turned around to face Harvey,his face contorted in anger. His partner growled out a furious sound and aimed his gun right at him.

Harvey tried to take sense. "Jim! Put your weapon down! C'mon, let's talk about this!"

In answer, Jim fired off a shot straight at his partner. Harvey threw himself out of the line of fire and collided with the far wall. Pieces of wooden mantling splintered and fluttered to the ground as the side of the wall caught the bullets meant for him.

The hallway fell chillingly silent. Harvey unholstered his weapon and inched out, just enough to see the smoke from the discharged firearm rising toward the ceiling and his partner training the sights of his gun back on his fiance.

(x)

Lee felt the terror, raw and real and threatening to overtake her. The light had gone out of Jim's eyes. He stared forward, robotic in his movements, apart from the sweating and quaking brought on by the drug that highjacked his body. She knew Harvey was right. She needed to run. She needed to get herself and their child out of there. But she'd also read the reports. She knew that anyone perceived as a threat would be at the mercy of the victim's intense impulse to attack.

Jim blinked, and for a moment, she saw him. Her Jim. He was fighting it, fighting off his body and mind's every command to shoot her dead. She watched the wheels turning in his mind, running through the engine of distrust, shame, and rage.

The officers that had gathered at either end of the hallway pointed their guns forward, ready to fire. As she stared down the barrel of his gun, she realized in an unwelcome burst of clarity that this was their last chance.

Lee spoke softly, hands held high in the air. "Jim, you know I would never do anything to hurt you."

Suddenly, his gaze was replaced by one much harder and colder. The drug began to win. He aimed the gun at the spot directly between her eyes. His pointer finger flinched, only a hair away from pulling the trigger.

Lee's breath stopped dead in her throat. But she steeled herself and forced her fear to take a backseat. She said, "I know you're feeling like nothing is making sense right now. I know you're lost and you're scared."

His hand trembled and his arm sagged ever so slightly, moving the gun down an inch.

Lee took one tentative step forward. Jim breathed in a terrified breath and the gun returned, only an inch or two away from her face.

She kept her voice steady. "I know you're afraid that you're going to lose everything." She whispered, "I'm scared, too. I'm scared all the time that I might lose you. But I'm here, Jim. Right now, we're in this together."

She took another step. Jim's arm flinched, but he didn't fire. Lee slid her foot closer and closer until she could feel the heat from his fever radiating off of him.

"Jim." She said his name like she did when they first started dating. Like it cost her five dollars every time she said it, so she needed to make it last.

He breathed noisily, air wheezing out of him. The gun still stayed between them.

Lee begged him. "Don't leave me. Stay with me, Jim. I need you."

His hand shook like a leaf. Jim lifted the gun upward, so close that it almost touched Lee's face, and then he lowered his gun down to his side.

Jim reached forward and placed his free hand against her cheek. He breathed out, "I… I need you, too."

Lee jutted out of the way just as Harvey tackled him from behind, sending Jim's weapon out of his hand and clattering onto the ground. He grabbed both of Jim's shoulders and pushed him up against the wall of the hallway. "Sorry, partner," he said. "This is for your own good."

Jim's shoulders sagged. It was as if the puppet master cut his strings. He collapsed hard against the wall. Harvey grabbed him up from under his arms and carefully lowered his partner down onto the ground.

Lee fell down on her knees at Jim's side. He jerked and moved, trapped inside a nightmare from which he could not wake. She cradled his head gently and ran her hand down the front of his shirt. "Jim," she said in a breaking voice. "No, no, no. Don't you leave me. Stay with me. … Stay with me."

The precinct sprung into action, securing the area, calling for backup, and keeping their eyes ever focused on Detective Jim Gordon. Moments later, an all too familiar sound reached her ears. Lee had never been so relieved to hear the warble of ambulances approaching.

(x)

Madeline sat in the conference room, her mind reeling from the events that had taken place over the past few days. She stared forward, not even fooling herself into thinking that getting back to work was possible. Her brain struggled to keep up. It reminded her of what the movie people called 'soft focus'. There was a lack of definition in her thoughts, in her movements, in reality itself.

"Hey."

She jumped and looked up to see Harvey Bullock standing in the doorway.

He said, "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

"No, no," she said. "You surprised me, but you didn't…" She looked at him closely and said, "Oh my God, what happened to your face?"

Harvey stepped inside the conference room and sat down. "You should see the other guy."

She stood up and put up her finger. "Just, wait here. I'll be right back." She returned with a ziploc bag full of ice cubes. "Here…" She gently pressed the ice against his right cheek. "That oughtta help you not wake up with a face the size of a beach ball."

He flinched at the cold, but accepted it. With his free hand, he took his hat off and set it down on the table.

Madeline looked at him. "Are you all right?"

"I know it might shock you, but this wasn't exactly the first time I've been bumrushed by the general public."

"I'm not talking about the shiner. I mean, after what happened today with your partner."

Harvey looked up at her, before he said quickly and calmly, “No, no. He’s gonna be fine.”  
Madeline didn’t have the energy to hold back. She expelled a long breath of relief.

He said, “They got him down at Gotham General. They said his vital signs looked good. Lee's down there with him. I tried to tell her I'd stay with him … but she wants to be there when he wakes up."

She nodded. "So they think he’ll make a full recovery.”

"Are you kidding?" He set down the ice and stretched his jaw. "He'll be back in here tomorrow, with an IV in his arm and a bandage around his head. Gettin' right back to opening up every case we've ever closed."

She nodded her chin at Harvey. "That sounds a little like this guy I used to know."

Harvey looked up, holding her gaze.

Madeline reached out and carefully rested her fingertips atop his hand. She whispered, "I miss that guy sometimes."

He stared down at her hand and let it rest there. "I'm right where you left me, Maddie."

She absorbed his response for everything it was, and everything it said and didn't say. "Sometimes I think that's true. Sometimes I wonder if I hadn't left-"

"I don't," he said.

Now she was the one taking the punch. She swallowed her pride. "You don't, huh?"

"I ain't one for looking back. Never did me much good."

Madeline considered responding with familiar canned lines about mindfulness and staying in the moment. Then she looked into Harvey's eyes and discarded them all. For just a moment, underneath the bruises and the salt and pepper in his beard, she saw the man who first caught her eye walking through Blackgate Penitentiary. That devil-may-care, self-assured detective who locked eyes with her and sent her that crooked grin from across the room. She said, "That makes sense. You've always been the kinda guy who knew what he wanted when he saw it."

Harvey said, "I like to keep my eyes open." He took her hand in his and squeezed it tightly before he stood up to walk away. "You never know what's gonna come back around."

A smile worked its way onto her face. She said, "See you tomorrow, Detective Bullock."

He sent her that familiar sly smile from the doorway. "Can't wait." He put his hat back on his head and left.

Maddie shook her head, still smiling. She mused softly to herself, "Delight, rupture, repair, new delight."

It remained to be seen. As Harvey had so astutely pointed out earlier on their car ride to her office, time would tell.


	22. Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

Red and blue lights from the grille flashers of the police cruisers down in the street washed over the dark brick wall of the church. Barbara gazed up at him, her arm taut as he clasped her hand in his white-knuckle grasp. He asked her to hold on. This time her hand clasped tightly to his. A butterfly inched out of her mouth and flew upward. Jim's eyes followed the butterfly, watching it float lazily above the window and out of sight. He stared back down at Barbara … to find that it wasn't Barbara's hand he was holding, but Lee's.

Lee smiled at him easily, looking fresh and young and beautiful. She laughed at something, that laugh that sparkled out of her. When Jim pulled her upward, the action felt effortless, and she stood safe and sound at his side within moments.

Jim placed his hands on her waist, needing touch to confirm her realness, and pulled her close. "Are you okay?"

She said, "I am now."

"Let's go home."

She reached up and covered his eyes with her hand. When she pulled away her hand, she said, "We are home." Just like that, they stood together in Lee's apartment in the middle of the kitchen. They drew close, wrapped their arms around each other, and Jim kissed her deeply. Behind them, a short electronic noise beeped, beeped, beeped. Deep inside Lee's kiss, he opened his eyes and glanced over at the stove. The timer was going off.

He awoke with a start.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Jim opened his eyes, unsure of where he was, and stared forward to see a whitewashed wall with pale blue mini-blinds covering the only window. The bed felt hard and had metal braces on either side. The air burned through his nostrils, holding the high stench of Lysol and antiseptics. A machine beeped next to him reporting his vital signs.

Someone stirred from beside him. Jim looked to his right to see Lee sitting in a chair by his side.

Lee touched his forearm. "Jim, it's okay. You're..."

Jim reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her close. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his head in her shoulder. Lee embraced him just as tightly. They stayed that way for a full minute, before Jim breathed out, "I thought I lost you."

She relaxed against him, and when they broke apart, she held his hand in hers. "The doctors here checked me out. I'm fine…" She touched her stomach. "We're both fine."

Jim clenched his eyes shut as shards of what took place slashed through into his mind. Barbara's apparition taunting him. Adrenaline pumping through his veins. The cold clammy metal of the gun in his hand. How his pointer finger touched the trigger. He tried to ignore the the horrifying images and the even more terrible thought looming behind them. How close he came to his heart breaking with sorrow and terror.

Lee squeezed his hand. "Hey," she said. "You stopped yourself. Even a drug designed to force you to hurt me couldn't make you do it."

He shook his head at her. "What were you thinking? You should have gotten yourself the hell out of there. I could have killed you…" His voice cracked when he said, "Both of you."

Lee said, "It wouldn't have helped. Harvey tried that."

Jim checked, "...He's okay?"

She smiled. "As okay as he'll ever be. In a weird way, it's good you were drugged. Your aim was off." She added. "Way off."

Jim ran his hands over his face. "I can't believe what I almost did…"

She whispered, "Don't do that to yourself."

"Lee, I held a gun to you. I could have pulled the trigger."

Lee didn't let him go there. "But you didn't."

He whispered, "I almost did."

"We aren't judged on what we almost do. That doesn't count. What counts is the actions we do take." She ran her hand over his. "You chose me." She placed her other hand on her stomach. "You chose us."

Jim's hand fell to softly caress Lee's stomach. "I've made other choices…" He looked up into her eyes, feeling an ice cold shiver run down his back. "Done other things that I haven't been proud of, that have … changed me."

Lee paused. She seemed to hear part of what was underneath his words. She looked at him with those dark eyes that were both kind and arresting. "We all do those things, Jim. We hurt people by accident, or even on purpose." Lee said, "The reason we do it is simple. It's because we're human."

Jim felt something pull deep inside his chest. "I want to be better," he said. "For you." He pressed his hand against Lee's stomach. "For her."

"I know that," Lee whispered. "But for right now, for just this moment, maybe you don't have to be better. Maybe what you are, what we are, is already enough."

Jim drew her close. He whispered in her ear, "I love you, Lee."

"I love you, too." She rested her head against his, and after a long moment, she asked, "Do you remember what you told me? What you said right before you passed out at the station?"

He pulled back to look into her eyes. "I think I might have said, I need you."

Lee's eyes shone with tears. "I think I might have heard that, too."

He shrugged boyishly. "I mean, all it took was having a dangerous, mind-altering drug in my system to get me to say it."

Lee squeezed his hand. "Next time we might want to try saying that without a loaded gun between us."

Jim felt himself smile. "I think we can work on that."

A few minutes later, the two of them looked to the doorway as Harvey Bullock stepped into the hospital room. "Hey, hey, he lives!" Harvey walked up and dropped down a brown paper bag with a heavy, foil-wrapped meal inside. "Brought you a meatball sub from Lucky's Diner. Figured you'd want some real grub instead of whatever this hospital dumps on a plate and calls food."

Jim accepted the meal. His stomach spoke up with a gurgle as he smelled the oregano, beef, and sauce. "Thanks. I think the last time I ate was …" He looked at Lee. "What day is it?"

Lee said, "It's Tuesday."

"Yeah. Monday. The last time I ate was Monday." He unwrapped the sandwich and began to chow down.

"This one," Harvey said, pointing at Jim. "He forgets to eat. Don't make no sense."

Lee nodded, commiserating. "He tells me that all the time."

Jim said, "I get distracted."

"You get dehydrated and cranky," Harvey said. "Man's gotta keep his strength up."

Jim said, "I think you keep your strength up enough for the both of us." Jim looked at Lee and pointed a thumb at his partner. "Never once seen him turn down food."

"Hey, asking me if I want food is like asking me if I want money. Of course, I do."

Jim nodded to him. "How's the case coming?"

Lee kissed Jim hastily on the side of his mouth and said, "I think I'll let you boys talk shop. I'll be back in a bit."

Harvey waited until she'd left to say, "I come bearing good news. We got the bastard."

Jim eyes widened. "You found him? He's in custody?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself." He said, "Our Paycheck Pharmacist was one Dr. Frederick Moon. Worked in the chem lab at Gotham University, in the basement of their science building that sits on the tallest hill on campus. We found him in his garage sitting in the driver's seat of his dark blue van." Harvey produced the file, along with the pictures taken by forensics. "He left the car running with the garage doors shut, but not before he wrote a suicide note which included his confession."

Jim looked over all the evidence. "Did it say why he did it? Why he wanted to drug all those people? Me?"

Harvey said, "The note didn't get into detailed specifics. Basically, it was one last 'screw you' angry gram to the entire Gotham University science team. Saying how they never appreciated him, always told him he'd never amount to anything." He said, "He called attention to all these long dead scientists talkin' about how history never appreciated them until after they croaked."

Jim read aloud from the letter Dr. Moon left behind. "'If the world won't appreciate what I've achieved in life, they'll be left with the discoveries I leave behind in death.'"

Harvey sat back, shrugging. "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

Jim leaned back in his hospital bed. He looked at Harvey. "That ties things up tightly."

"I know, right? I tell ya. I love the easy ones."

Jim made a noise of suspicion. "...Wraps things up a little too tightly, don't you think?"

His partner's face fell. "Let me get this straight. Just to make sure I didn't hear you incorrectly, now your problem is that we have TOO much evidence."

Jim said, "I'm just saying, it's suspect."

"I swear to God, Gordon, I could show up here with Amelia Earhart, the Lindbergh baby, and the Loch Ness Monster and you'd tell me, 'But what're they all doing in the same room together? I don't know. Sounds fishy.'"

He thought about it, clicked the side of his mouth and said, "It does sound fishy. Why'd they all decide to congregate in Gotham decades after they disappeared?"

"Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ. It's a conspiracy!" Harvey exclaimed. "They've been working together all this time!"

Jim grinned. "Sounds like enough evidence to, you know, reopen their cases."

"Look, Gordon, I know you're in the hospital recovering from going all nutso on a mind control drug, so I'm gonna take it easy on you and give you a pass." He dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of Rolaids. He shook his head and popped one in his mouth. He suddenly looked like a man who was going to need quite a few more Rolaids before the day was done. "We're just gonna chalk up this crazy talk about there being an over-abundance of evidence to that."

Jim looked at him. "You know, way back, when I first signed on with the GCPD, I could have been partnered up with just about anyone in there."

Harvey stood up and said, "I know. I think about that all the time." He went to leave the room but not before barking off, "Get back on your feet. All that paperwork back at the office ain't gonna fill itself out."

Jim relaxed back onto the hospital bed. He looked down at his half-eaten meatball sub and finished it off with gusto. He thought about calling one of the nurses. He'd need a bedroom smile and the right words in the right places, but he could get himself a discharge. He considered ringing up the Captain, making his assertion that this case appeared to have what some of his more uncouth colleagues called an 'orgy of evidence'.

The minute he balled up the leftover foil and placed it on his nightstand a wave of exhaustion washed over him. He'd go back to working the case. He would. He just needed to rest his head against his pillow for just a moment.

When Lee walked back into the room, she smiled down at her fiancee. She watched his chest rising and falling rhythmically as he fell back into a deep sleep. She leaned down and whispered, "Sweet dreams, Jim."

(x)

Deep underground in the confines of Indian Hill, the electronic beep of a machine designed to measure blood pressure and heart rate spiked. The machine angrily sounded its alarm, and Professor Hugo Strange reacted immediately. When a person worked in the medical field for as long as he did, it was easy to become desensitized to the varying electronic noises of all the machines kept up and running. They even had a term for it. 'Noise fatigue'.

He doubted he'd ever experience that when it came to this particular patient, nor would anyone in his employ. This one was far too important.

Professor Strange walked briskly down a sterile hallway lit entirely by overhead fluorescent lights. Ms. Peabody stood ever vigilant, looking in on the patient's room from a large, thick glass window.

The professor came to a halt by her side. He squinted through his spectacles into the room. He said, "Another nightmare."

Ms. Peabody said, "This one might be the worst yet."

He ran his hand over his chin, over his short neat beard. "What elements were in that serum his father gave him, I wonder? That even now, he's still under its effects."

She glanced down and scribbled a note in the patient's chart. "The Crane Formula works well enough on our subjects upstairs from what I've seen."

"Yes, it works," Strange said with a hint of impatience to his tone. "For all of ten minutes."

Ms. Peabody returned her gaze back to the patient. When she spoke, her voice held only interest. "And why, Professor Strange, would you need a serum that would last for days, weeks, even months?"

He made a thoughtful noise. "Dr. Frederick Moon asked me that same question in nearly the same way."

This earned a dark frown from Ms. Peabody.

Strange clucked his tongue. "Such a disappointment that one. He showed such promise…"

Ms. Peabody said. "I'll take that to mean that we're going to have Project Crane take a backseat to some of our more… pressing deadlines."

"Alas," the professor sighed out. "So he will."

She cast him a glance out of the corner of her eye. "... You still think you can get the boy to talk, don't you?"

"Don't you know the secret to not letting this profession drag you down? Hope springs eternal."

She humphed. "No matter what mind control drug we use, it's completely ineffective."

"The drug his father gave him no doubt scorched any pathways that would let the mind control drugs do their work." A smile spread across his face at the question. "But everyone has a button, Ms. Peabody. All you have to do is find it. And push."

In the small, whitewashed room, Jonathan Crane lay strapped to a hospital bed. He bucked and contorted, screaming animalistic noises. He'd gotten twisted in his sheets and moved so wildly in his sleep that his bed was a battlefield.

It would be hours before the nightmare would stop.


	23. Bowl of Oranges

Jim Gordon sat across from Dr. Scott in her office. The room felt different than it had since the first day he walked inside, just over two weeks ago. He'd opted for an evening slot this time, and he was beginning to think that had something to do with it. At night, the blinds were closed, and only floor lamps illuminated the space. It gave the room a relaxed, comfortable feel that had been missing in the sessions before.

He started by discussing the dream he'd had while in the hospital. Dr. Scott listened while she snacked on segments of a Valencia orange, one of several from a bowl sitting on the table beside her, which she explained were open for appropriation. Jim declined but thanked her for the offer.

The sweet, citrus scent hung in the air as he described the end of the dream. "... When I looked down, Barbara wasn't there. Instead, I was holding onto Lee. And before I knew it, Lee and I were back at home in the kitchen of her apartment."

Madeline finished off the orange and brushed her hands against each other. "In a safe space. On solid ground. What happened next?"

"I woke up," Jim said. "And saw Lee sitting next to me in my hospital room."

She smiled, but she looked ... He kindly decided on the word 'tired'. Which made sense. After her guest appearances on local television, her books sales had been up, and he was certain that meant voicemails requesting session times were up, too. "That must have been a relief," she said.

"Yeah. To say the least."

"I, uh, I wasn't present when the drug …" She looked down, as if searching for the right words in the carpet. "...got into your system. I understand that you fought off its effects."

"Just barely."

"But enough that you saved your life and the lives of your fiance and unborn child."

Jim could understand completely why people avoided therapy like drunks avoid a checkpoint. It cut right down into the very center of you, leaving you open, exposed...

It was like Madeline sensed it. "What I just said … what did it make you feel?"

Vulnerable. "Thoughtful," he said.

"Is that all you felt?"

Jim knew all about where that question led. He said in a strong, clear voice, "The way I see it, it's best to focus on the positives here. Lee and I survived something together that..." He unintentionally repeated words from their last session. "... most people don't."

"That's a good strategy," she said. "An even better one is to figure out some coping skills for when this 'thoughtful'..." She looked at him meaningfully. "Feeling arises."

He looked at her. "Coping skills. Like … deep breathing, knowing your triggers, decompressing?"

Madeline nodded, faux impressed. "I see somebody attended the Stress Management for Law Enforcement training."

"Well, it is mandatory."

"It's a snorefest. I used to teach that class back in the day."

"You don't say," he said, half-joking.

Madeline smirked at him, which Jim couldn't have imagined she would have done a few sessions ago. Maybe he wasn't the only one beginning to let their guard down. She got them back on track. "The coping skills you mentioned are good 'ole standbys. But a lot of times the best ways of coping don't come from a text book. They come from you, er, the client themselves."

Jim thought on that and said, "So basically, we already have the answer. We just don't know it yet?"

"In a strange way, I suppose that's at the heart of any good therapy session." She sat back and motioned her hand toward him. "Take your dream for example."

"What about it?"

Madeline said, "You experienced something we call an image rehearsal moment. You took a devastating loss from your past, Barbara's suicide attempt, and you rewrote the moment. You let go of what you couldn't control, and you took hold of what was in your control. Your life with Lee and your child. That's not so terribly different from what you're doing outside your dream, is it?"

Jim found himself saying, "I still visit her. Barbara."

Madeline mused on that and asked, "Is there something that does for you?"

"Besides throw a wrench in my day?" Though he seemed to joke, it was weak-said. "I'm not sure why I keep going."

She remained silent, watching him. It occurred to him that there were few more awkward situations than a therapist sitting across from you, waiting for you to figure something out for yourself.

The detective in him found it easier to guess what Madeline wanted him to say. "You think I go there because I still feel guilty for wanting to kill her."

"Or for not saving her," she said. "Or maybe you feel like visiting her is worth it to you, if it brings you closure."

Jim looked at her carefully and decided something, "Like you did. When you went back to interrogate Jack Gruber."

Madeline's face remained indiscernible. She didn't validate his statement nor did she deny it. "We both have good intentions, Jim. That's not our problem. Our problem is knowing our limits. Not just saying we know them, but actually respecting the boundaries that keep us safe. We need to be honest with ourselves that it is impossible for us to save everyone."

The conversation awoke something inside him. When he did speak, it was with energy and conviction. "I know that." He knew on any battlefield, but especially upon the ones he fought lately, that casualties were a certainty, despite how desperately he wanted to prevent each and every one them. "I know the score. But what's wrong with putting everything on the line, everything you have to bring back as many people with you as you can?"

"It's brave. That sentiment. In fact it probably says everything about why you do what you do." Madeline said, "There's nothing wrong with it, until it takes something out of you that you can't get back. Until it hurts the people closest to you in a way that can't be undone."

The film reel played behind his eyes. He saw himself firing his gun off into the air and pushing Penguin into the river. He saw himself standing with Penguin on the opposite side of that same river, months later, firing the gunshot that killed Gallivan. Jim said, "What if it's already too late? Once you go to that place, it changes something inside you. I don't think you can come back."

"This world isn't black and white, Jim. And you probably know that better than anybody I've seen before," she said. "Some people have nightmares because their world is dark and upside down and ruined. But good people? Good people have nightmares because they can't forgive themselves." She said, "So it comes down to a question. Can you forgive yourself?"

Jim said, "I'm not so sure I want to be the type of person who can forgive themselves that easily."

"Because it would be cold?"

"Because it would be irresponsible."

She seemed to make a decision. "You wear responsibility well. Too well, maybe."

Jim blinked a few times and said, "So wait, you're saying there's another problem? Just so you know, I'm losing count here."

She frowned. If he read her right, she seemed to be struggling with something. "Let me, uh, let me explain. I called another client of mine who has your same diagnosis of PTSD. I alerted him that he was danger, but I... didn't do the same for you. It bothered me that..." When she paused, he could almost hear her mentally call herself out. "I was absolutely devastated when I learned what had happened and realized I'd done nothing to stop it."

Jim zoned in on her and spoke in a voice that left no room for argument. "You can't blame yourself for a decision made by a psychopath."

She all but froze at the words. For the shortest second, she looked taken aback. No, it was more than that. He'd derailed something. Just what he wasn't sure. Jim leaned in and said softly, "... Madeline, are you... Did I say something wrong?"

She shook her head deliberately and made that familiar cutting motion with her hand. It was like watching someone toggle a shift stick from neutral into first. She sat up straight and snapped back into the session. "It just never fails to astonish me. The things we're able to tell others, but unable to tell ourselves."

Before he could piece together a response, Madeline hurried to fill the silence. She repeated his words back to him. "You can't blame yourself for a decision made by a psychopath." She held up her pointer finger and drew continual circles in the air. He doubted the doctor realized how much she sounded like Harvey when she said, "You need to play that thought back to yourself on a loop. On the regular."

Jim sent her only ten percent of the stare he would usually send his partner. "That might work, if I was anything other than a police officer. But I’m paid to protect this city from psychopaths and the atrocities they're hell bent on making a reality. It's basically my whole job description."

Madeline said, "I thought a lot about why I didn't try to protect you. It was because I saw you in just that way. As someone who had everything under control, someone above needing protection. I'm willing to bet other people see you that way, too." She said, "And if they do, you may spend a lot of time without support."

"I know I'm just one man." And anytime he happened to forget, Gotham had a way of providing a swift reminder. "And I know nothing is accomplished without the help of others." His partner, the Captain, Lee... "All I want is to make Gotham a safer place however I can."

"Being that hope for this city is noble, and it could also potentially leave you with guilt for not being able to live up to that..." She decided on, "impossible standard. That's why you need to make a change, just like you have before."

He didn't understand what she referred to. "Before?"

"Our last session you said you couldn't open up to Lee as much as she wanted. That day at the station, with that horrible drug in your system, you made a different choice. You reached out to her."

Jim thought of a joke that wasn't funny. He wasn't sure why he said it aloud, but he did. "Somehow I don't think re-creating that same scene would help anyone."

Madeline smiled, willing to find the humor in the dark statement. "Let me be clear. I am NOT suggesting that you re-take whatever drug that was. However, it couldn't hurt to make a deliberate choice to forgive yourself for whatever happened with Barbara, or anything else that wakes you up at night."

He rephrased it. "So I need closure."

"Sometimes we get closure. Other times, we have to make do with whatever closure we can find." She switched gears and said, "Do you know what a butterfly symbolizes in dreams?"

"The same as it does outside of dreams," Jim said. "A change, a metamorphosis."

Madeline nodded her agreement. "You transformed Barbara into Lee in your dream. What you need now is a transformation for yourself."

Jim blinked and looked down at his watch. "We might have to work on that next time."

Madeline frowned and looked up at the clock on her wall. "Oh, crap. We're five minutes over."   
She stood up. "Thanks for the sharp eye."

Jim said, "No problem." He couldn't believe that he lost track of the time himself.

"Here, let me check to see if my client is…" She pulled back the curtain and looked out the window. "Yep. Right on time." She said to Jim, "Same time next week?"

"If you say so," he said, grabbing his coat. "You're the doctor."

Madeline walked over to her desk on the other side of the room. "Hey, could you let my next client know that I'm aware he's here? I just need two minutes and I'll be ready to see him."

Jim nodded. "Sure." He closed the door quietly behind him and looked up into the waiting room. He saw Bruce Wayne sitting in one of the high-back chairs, staring straight at him.

"Detective Gordon." Bruce looked confused and then his face became even. "It's good to see you."

"Hey, Bruce," Jim walked over and shook his hand. "Good to be seen." He cleared his throat. "So, uh, you meet with Dr. Scott?"

"I just started. And you…" Bruce watched him carefully and then said, "Were talking to Dr. Scott about a police matter?"

Jim silently thanked Bruce for giving him the out. What he said next was technically true. "She consults with us on cases from time to time."

Bruce nodded. He looked unsurprised by the information.

"She told me to let you know that she'll be out in a minute," Jim said. His voice softened and he asked, "How are you doin'? With everything?"

Bruce looked up at him and said, "I'm feeling my way through."

Before Jim could reply, Madeline opened the door. She sent a smile to Bruce. "I'm ready when you are."

Jim put a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Take care, Bruce."

He stood up and said, "You, too, detective."

Jim left the office, and Bruce stepped into his session.


	24. Blackbird

Bruce and Madeline settled into her office. It didn't take long before she asked him her quintessential therapy question. "How've you been feeling?"

"Calm," he answered. "I haven't been experiencing any elevated emotion."

Or if he had, Madeline couldn't imagine he'd admit it to her - or to himself, not without her backing him into a corner first. She mentally stepped back to take a look at not just that single tile but the whole mosaic that was "the prince of Gotham", Bruce Wayne. Assessing his straight-as-a-rail posture, how he looked her right in the eye but …also pinned her with a 1000 yard stare she mostly only saw in the eyes of war veterans. He appeared relaxed, but it was the most forced relaxation she'd seen manifested in some time. This was a kid who's smoke detector was -always- turned on. And the amygdala burned through a lot more battery life than what was inside a couple double AAs. She added up these observations in a matter of seconds, a halfway decent trick acquired from years of practice.

Then she asked herself the last question on her list: Was he connecting with her or not?

Here she stumbled upon an uncharacteristic hesitation. And then she realized with a modicum of dread.

_You'll know by the end of this session._

She decided it was in their best interest to kick things off with a common goal. "What about nightmares? Have you had any this week?"

Bruce answered her question, as if he'd anticipated it well before she asked. "I had one. Last night. This one was … different from the others."

Madeline adjusted her glasses and sat back. "Talk to me about it."

Bruce started off, as had so many others. _James Gordon. His mother, Martha._ He sunk back into the depths of the nightmare, unaware of the courage he displayed in doing so. "I'm in my bed. I wake up from … another nightmare, one that I can't remember." _Doesn't want to remember._ "I think I'm awake and the nightmare's over, but really I'm still dreaming." _False awakening. They'll hose you every time._ "I sit up in bed and look around, and the room looks just like my room. Nothing's out of place, but … I have this feeling, a physical feeling, that something's not right."

She asked him, "Where did you experience that physical feeling?"

He looked down in thought, no doubt doing a mental body scan, trying to remember. He looked up at her. "My stomach and my chest."

 _That gnawing interior discomfort. … Poor kid._ "What happens next?"

"I stand up and I walk out to the french window in my bedroom. I unlatch and throw open the window. This strong, cold breeze hits my face, and I close my eyes." _His voice is changing. He's in it now._ "Then, I open them and suddenly, I'm staring out at a graveyard. It's the same one where my parents are buried." His eyes held that distant gaze, the same one Gordon had right before...

"Bruce."

The sound of his own name jarred him, like a person who just woke up and isn't sure where he is. Madeline said softly, "I need you to take few deep breaths, okay? I know it's a strange request, but humor me."

Bruce nodded and followed her suggestion. _He's nothing if not polite. Martha would be proud. (And so heartbroken.) No, nope. Stay here. You can time travel later._ Madeline demonstrated, drawing in a deep breath and releasing it. Inhale, exhale. Repeat. When he looked like he was breathing normally, Madeline said, "Okay. Now you said you were standing there looking out of the window."

Bruce continued. "It's like I float up or fly there somehow. I land right in front of their headstones. I can see the smooth, cold marble with their names… The date of when they died."

That date was etched in stone in more places than just that graveyard. "You're coming up on the anniversary of their deaths, in just a few short weeks."

"Yes," he said. "I try not to think about that … but I think about it anyway."

She shared with him, "Anniversaries are important in this business. If we aren't conscious of them, we can self-destruct without even understanding what the calendar did to us."  
Bruce nodded, as though that made logical sense. The kid was only accessing the one-plus-one-equals-two side of his brain. It was the only safe place to go. "I'm there, sitting there for awhile. Then, I look up and I notice a full moon is out. My eyes adjust to the darkness, to where I can see almost as clearly as I do when it's light out." _A frighteningly accurate metaphor for his reality._ "That's when I see it."

Madeline blinked and sat up. "That's when you see what?"

"A… bird, I think. It's dark and … vague. It doesn't have any features." He blinked several times, frustrated by this facet of the dream. "It's high up the sky, but it starts descending, closer and closer. I keep trying to get a better look at it, but then … the scene ends."  
She repeated back. "The scene ends?"

"Yes. Almost like a play," he said. _Or like a movie, maybe like the one his parents took him to right before they…_ "Someone pulls a dark curtain closed and… then it's over. And I wake up. This time for real."

Bruce stared at her openly, as though he'd just read off a grocery list to her instead of described one of the most haunting dreams he'd ever experienced in his short life.

_Jesus._

_… I should have come back so much sooner._

Madeline kept on point, hid her concern and stayed only curious, so he wouldn't close up like a car window. "It know it was dark and vague, but … What kind of bird do you think it was?"

"I don't know." He said uncertainly, "A blackbird? Maybe."

She took a risk with a little dry humor. "Did it perch on a bust of Pallas just above your chamber door?"

Bruce lent her a smile. It only felt halfway dutiful. "No." He quoted softly, "Tis some visitor. Nothing more."

Madeline watched him. Well, at least she hadn't induced a flashback like with Gordon. "What do you think the dream meant?"

He fell back into silent consideration. "I think it's trying to tell me something."

"Sometimes that's what dreams do," she said. "They say: Look here. This is important."

Bruce put the question back on her. "What do you think it's trying to tell me?"

She breathed out a loud sigh through one corner of her mouth. "Well, we could be psychoanalytical. Talk about the elements of the dream, give them roles, make them actors. Or we could wax philosophical, postulate about what a blackbird represents. But … I don't think there's anything substantial to be found there, in this case. So let me ask you this. When you were in the dream, how did you feel?"

"I started out feeling alone and afraid." Bruce's voice was even, pragmatic. Still didn't have the slightest hint of emotion. She'd need a crowbar and some elbow grease if she ever figured out where he hid that black box. "Then when I saw the bird, I felt …intrigued."

"So the dream ended on a neutral note."

"Yes," he agreed. "I just wanted to know more."

The seconds ticked past, and Madeline made a game time decision. "Are there times in your waking life where you've started out feeling afraid and then that evolved into a feeling of curiosity?"

He nodded another affirmative. "When that happens, I feel... clear." He spoke easily. Too easily. "It's energizing."

Bruce looked like a kid and spoke words like an adult. But he was both and he was neither. Much like he knew simultaneously too much about grief and too little. And he was intellectualizing that grief all over the place, and it needed to stop. "So you might say that your nightmare has left you with an interesting problem to solve."

He blinked. "I suppose it could be looked at that way."

Madeline leaned in and said in a soft but firm voice, "Maybe the more you learn about what things are, the less terrifying they are to you. In fact, maybe if you can just learn to master all your fear, you'll figure it out. You'll fully realize whatever terrible mistake you feel you made in that alley outside the theater. And then you'll never have to feel your heart break like that ever again."

Bruce stared forward silently. She knew he heard the words, but he failed to react to them in any way. Somewhere in some back corner of her mind, she heard Harvey telling her that she had other tools in her toolbox besides her sledgehammer. You might want to root around in there one day, doc, you know, see what else you got.

_Get out of my session, Harvey._

And just like that, therapy froze to a standstill.

_Shit._

Well, she'd challenged him, and she did so knowing a complete circuit board shut down was possible. Such were the hazards of her brand of therapy. And this kid/adult might not think she could hack a little silent treatment, a little who blinks first. But he had no idea to whom he'd thrown down the gauntlet. She could outlast anything. The wall behind her would say something before she did.

Madeline counted the seconds as they stared at each other. She blinked and shifted in her seat, showing him that she could do that and also not have to say a word.

Bruce finally did speak up, but he did so only to change the subject. "I began reading your book."

 _So he brings up a topic that, at any other time, that high-on-myself side of me is just dying to talk about. Good lord, he was sharp. Look out girls. Look out world. Bruce Wayne is coming for you._ But she wasn't about to let him off the hook that easily. She ignored his statement. "There are other ways to address that fear you feel that are healthy and can move you forward."

He considered this. "What kind of ways?"

Mentally, she breathed a sigh of relief. "We can train ourselves to handle fear well by learning different ways to breathe, to move. I mean, it's really been utilized since time immortal in countries like China, Japan, India…"

He seemed to like something about the suggestion. "How do those tactics control it?"

"Well, it's about purposeful movement and being centered," she said. "Depression's all about the past. Anxiety's all about the future. And we function at our best level when our mind is here in the present."

Another long silence. _Well, maybe you should've ended with a open-ended question instead of more intellectualization? Like most therapists?_ She glanced at the clock. Dammit, only ten more minutes. Whatever. It was her last session of the night. She'd run them over time, if the kid let her.

She brought herself back to her unanswered question from the beginning of the session. _Is he connecting with you or not?_ She decided upon, _Not enough that I can be sure he'll come back. So not enough at all._

Then another thought rose into the ether. Maybe Bruce had pointed her down another possible path after all. She asked him. "So, how far are you into the book?"

This question brought Bruce back to life. "I'm nearly finished," he said. "I was wondering… You share case vignettes of real sessions. I know you saw my mother here for several months…"

Madeline nodded, understanding. Then she leaned in, as if sharing a secret. "Keep reading," she said. "You're almost there."

It was a gift that he accepted. It felt so good to give him something, to give Martha's boy...

"You know," Madeline said. "When I first started doing this, way back before the days of the dinosaur…" She joked and Bruce allowed for it. "I was so careful not to bring myself into the session. I didn't want…" _Say it._ "I didn't want anyone in here to see how fragile I was. How… I could make mistakes, miss things." She shrugged. "But at times, it happens to all of us."

Bruce furrowed his brow. "Do you feel you've said anything wrong to me during our session?"  
She almost told him that if he was gonna ask that question then they may as well switch seats. Instead, she said, "When I first met you, I told you that your mother taught me a lot about strength and empathy. I wasn't just saying that." With that, Madeline collected up her poker chips. Maybe if she wanted the kid to connect, she'd have to demonstrate it first. It was time to go all in. "Though your mother didn't know it at the time, I was attending my own therapy to deal with symptoms that were very similar to her own."

Madeline didn't know if Bruce could show true surprise, so even a ghost of it was something. "So psychologists sometimes need therapy, too." He said it as though it was an idea he hadn't happened upon until now.

"Well, I can't sit in a room and hold a therapy session with myself." Then she looked Bruce in the eye and put power behind her words. If he'd already read the book, they wouldn't come as much of a surprise. "Six years ago here in Gotham, a man tried to kill me," she said. "I survived it. Obviously. But afterwards I experienced trauma of my own."

Bruce responded, saying, "In your writing, you said you tried to ignore it."

 _Actually, I said…_ "I was trying to ‘be strong’. Sometimes that’s code for ignoring feelings we don’t want to feel.” She said, “Hiding our core feelings takes an enormous amount of energy. Despite that, I can't tell you how many times I decided that I was so much better off not feeling anything."

His dark eyes gave away nothing, but to her, it looked like he understood.

Madeline said, "It's a risk, isn't it? Letting ourselves feel when it's so terrifying?"

Bruce only continued to look at her with his striking, intense stare.

"But you've got a coping skill," she said. "You've got your intellect. That'll help you out someday. But you can't hide all your feelings behind it. Any more than I could hide mine behind 'I'm a psychologist so trauma won't affect me.'" They were running low on time. Had to be. "You need to look into your nightmares, not just to learn how to overcome them. But so that when you feel fear or anger or sadness, you can understand that it's a normal human reaction and also that it will not last forever."

He frowned, the face of a man deep in thought. "I think the bird in my nightmare was the reason I looked up from their graves." He looked up at Madeline. "I think it was trying to get my attention."

Another diversion from talking about feeling. But maybe she could use it. Maybe she would be psychoanalytical after all. "The bird is you," she said. "I think what you really want is to understand more about yourself."

He looked at her, still talking about the dream but in a new way. "If I decide I want to do that, I'll have to look at what's behind the curtain."

 _Oh, God. Would he just._ "Well, for what it's worth, everything we're talking about is already here in this room. You brought it with you. We could try to ignore it, but ...I think it's better to know the truth." She shrugged again. "Even if the truth is brutally painful. At least you'll know it for what it is."

Bruce focused in on what Madeline began to believe was his true goal. "Will that make me stronger?"

"Yes," she said. "Not at first. But over time it will."

Bruce sat, staring at her, a barely visible spark of interest in his eye. But she saw it. He watched her quietly, politely, as if he were waiting for her to say…

She pointed up to the clock. "We're a little - well, we're a lot - over time."

Bruce glanced behind his shoulder at the clock, and he stood up from his chair.

Madeline stood up, too. "So what do you think? Think you can stomach another fifty minute hour of this next week?"

Bruce looked at her for a long moment and decided. "I think we can try it."

She'd take it. "Okay. Let's bring you back out to your Mr. Pennyworth. Before he starts to worry that I'm gonna pitch a tent and have you camp out here."

Bruce opened the door for her like a gentleman. Madeline thanked him and walked through.


	25. What Do You Hear in These Sounds

Madeline stepped outside onto the stoop and immediately hugged her arms around herself as the winter breeze rushed her. The last leaves of fall crinkled and scraped against the sidewalk as the wind pushed them into a lazy tornado underneath the streetlamps. Bruce hunched down inside his coat and climbed inside the back of the town car as Alfred Pennyworth opened wide the door.

She heard the sharp slam of the car door, and she walked down the stairs at her leisure. When Alfred looked toward her, she pieced together whatever semblance of an earnest stare she could manage at this hour.

He stopped and greeted her. "Good evening, doctor."

She held up her hand in a simple wave. "Thank you for your patience. I know we ran a little over."

They met each other at the bottom of the stairs. "Well, so long as it's for Master Bruce's benefit, I can't see a point at issue."

Madeline kept her arms crossed tightly against the chill of the wind.

Alfred said, "We had quite the uneventful week. I'm relieved to say."

She nodded, knowing to what he referred. "I'm glad to hear it."

He spared a quick glance behind him. Then, he hesitated before he asked her, "...How's the boy doing?"

From where she stood, Madeline looked into the backseat window of the car, and when she did, she met Bruce's stare. She smiled slightly at him before looking back at his guardian. "He… is where he is?" she said. "And I'm trying my best to meet him there."

Alfred seemed to accept her response.

She said, "I want to thank you for bringing him. I know you said before, back at the manor, that you had made promises…"

He said, "I don't want you to misunderstand Thomas Wayne, doctor. He had a deep appreciation for people such as yourself, for the service your profession provides. Thomas Wayne only ever wanted the very best for his family." He drew in a breath and said, "However, he feared that having his wife and child share their deepest secrets with anyone in Gotham could potentially put them in harm's way. As well as pose a risk to the safety of the person sitting across from them listening to those secrets."

Madeline didn't mean to thinly press out a sigh. But she remembered something Bruce said from their first session. About how the people around him protected him at all costs, even putting their own lives in danger, because he was all that was left of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

She clicked her lips to herself and looked up at Alfred, saying, "So. I'll see Bruce next week?"

Alfred studied her for a moment. Madeline had no way of knowing if he found what he was looking for. "We shall both return at the same day, same hour."

She started to step back up the stairs, but then she suddenly looked back. "Mr. Pennyworth?"  
He turned back.

She asked him. "Do you know what separates those who make it through grief and trauma and those who don't?"

His mouth curled into a dry, rakish smile as he said, "If this is yet another sales pitch touting the curative benefits of your craft, I believe it's safe to inform you that no further selling point is necessary."

Madeline wore her own half-smile. "Those who go on to not just survive but thrive get there by being understood and loved by an attuned, self-possessed someone."

Alfred dropped his gaze and blinked several times after she spoke. When he looked back up, he said, "I steadfastly believe that someone," he said, of course, meaning himself, "will all but move heaven and earth to be there for that child for whatever he should need."

"Maybe, if you're lucky, you won't have to do it alone."

He bid her good-night. "'Til next time, doctor."

Madeline waited on the sidewalk, watching as Alfred started up the car and drove himself and Bruce back out into the streets. Then she walked back up the steps and inside her office. When she closed the door behind her, she breathed out long and hard and smiled.

Right up until she began to cry. She felt and then heard herself let go with a soft but breaking sound. The tears started slow. Then they built until sobs wracked her body. She let the door catch her and she slid down onto the floor.

The thoughts broke upon her with everything except the rock-crushing roar of a wave hitting the shore. In her mind's eye, she saw Jim Gordon who had stepped in something, lord only knew how deep with all the quicksand underfoot in that corrupt excuse for a station. He needed redemption, but to get there, he'd first need to face the dark corners of himself. But there was no way for him to dig down deep enough to that place, not with a baby on the way and a dead father to whom he still had everything to prove. So he continued to suppress whatever secrets he had, and as long as he did, he would be fundamentally at war with himself. The hell of it was, if he'd had any real practice with lying at all, he might have been able to sidestep, to correct. But Gordon was too honest a man. The face he showed the world held a mixture of unease and guilt, the face of a man trying very hard to forget the mistakes he'd made. And if she observed all those things so simply and plainly, how many others were noticing, too?

And she saw Bruce Wayne, a child, not a kid/adult, but a child with his 'you'll mistake me for a sociopath' stare caught in the riptide of all the emotions that he feared would drag him under if he ever so much as acknowledged their presence. Trying like hell to remove himself from every emotional event and at the same time feeling everything all the time all at once. And ironically, all of that said more about Bruce's level of courage than anything else. How he'd managed to step into her office twice now she had no idea. But he'd done it. Even though he was scared she wouldn't be able to help him, scared she would be able help him, scared that all the help in the world still wouldn't change the fact that a murderer took away his parents and undid his life. She knew that so clearly, because she was scared of it, too.

And Martha. That was where the breakdown really reached its crescendo. The woman she grew to love, and therapists weren't supposed to grow to love their clients, but it was just a little too late for that. Not in a romantic or lover's way, but in a vulnerable human 'you resemble me' way that almost made it worse. The woman who she made say out loud, who she made believe, 'There are things I can do to keep my son safe.' Martha, who she watched make such progress and as she did, it so granted Madeline the strength to heal herself. All for what? So Martha could watch herself bleed out in a gutter while her son looked on, helpless and heartbroken and made never the same. All grief was the death of 'could have beens', and Madeline had plenty of her own packed away. Her fantasy of seeing Martha again joyful and well and seeing it as an extension of her own healing. Martha would never read her book. Martha would never save another child from a life of abuse. Martha would never see her son grow up. Martha would never grow old, like she should have, like she so deeply deserved. And if Madeline felt the grief consume her this fully, this completely, how did Bruce feel it? To what hell did she return him after forcing and shoving him further down to gaze into the abyss of his total, abject sorrow?

Some one-plus-one-equals-two side of her own brain cautioned her to get ahold of herself, to wrap up this pity party already, to 'be strong'. But another part of her spoke more softly, saying, Practice what you preach. And really, at the end of the day, it was the least she could do.

Finally, the seas calmed, as they always eventually did. The thoughts relented. Exhaustion took its place, saying ...What just happened? Well, she was the one who made the brilliant decision to come back to Gotham. What did she expect?

But as her breathing and her tears slowed, Madeline realized something. She'd dug through the first, superficial layers, and that effort granted her access to part of what was underneath.

What was this, all of it really about anyway?

She closed her eyes and rested the back of her head against her closed office door. It was about a room inside the Waldorf Hotel and the stage of an abandoned theater. It was about a city that stole her sanity, or maybe that she let steal her sanity.  
It was about a phone call a few years overdue.

Madeline waited until she felt calm, drained, but calm. She lifted her cell phone from her pocket and dialed a number that had been stored in her phone for some time.

The phone rang once, twice, until it was answered.

A 'who the hell wants what now?' voice. "Bullock."

"Hey."

Followed by rhapsodic sarcasm. "Well, well. Look who learned how to dial a phone."

"Turns out it was easier than I thought. … You callin' it a day?"

"Yeah, I'm about to knock off."

Madeline threw down just a pin drop of the exhaustion she felt. "You got a minute?"

And to her surprise, he picked it up. "Maybe. What's goin' on?"

"Oh, just another rousing day in Gotham."

Harvey did that thing, where he expressed just that hint of concern. "...Somethin' happen?"

"No, no, it's … nothing like that. It's just, you know, the repeats," she said, knowing he would understand just exactly what she meant. "You know the deal. I see them coming and I try like hell to stop them. Then I watch them happen anyway."

"You're still lettin' that get to you, huh?"

"You know how that line goes. Old habits…"

Harvey replied with lazy certainty. "Yeah, well, here's another pearl of wisdom. Quit thinkin' that the only way to stop a freight train is to stand in front of it."

Madeline raised her eyebrows. "So what? I just step aside, say 'not my problem?'"

"Yeah, you don't know how to do that," he spelled out for her. "So you know, do your whole Madeline Scott, Texas Ranger thing. Throw some sand in the gears, uncouple some cars, show that emergency brake who's boss. But when you hear that quittin' bell ring? Do yourself a favor." He all but hissed out. "Call time."

She simplified it. "You're saying I need to chill out."

"There is molten lava smoldering deep within the center of the Earth that doesn't need to chill out like you do."

She shook her head. "It's not that simple-"

"It's just that simple," he laughed out in a dry, humorless way. "Is there somebody payin' you overtime right now? No? Then that means you're off the clock."

"So that's your advice. Be like you."

"Hey, I already did my job today. Time to kick back and tie one on." He added, "You oughtta try it out sometime, doc. You might remember how much you like it."

Madeline went quiet over the line. She smirked to herself, but she also felt something in her shoulders relax.

She could all but hear Harvey's wolfish grin. "...That was pretty good, right?"

"Not as good as the time I asked you 'why do they call it a pineapple?' And you said, ''Cause it ain't a pine and it ain't an apple.'"

"Doesn't take a rocket scientist."

"Boom. Another case closed." Madeline stretched out her arms as she asked, "So, how much do I owe you for the session?"

"I'm a public servant. Comes right out of your taxes."

She sang back, "Well, thank you for your time, officer." Then she ran her hand through her hair and pressed out a sigh. "It's gettin' late. I better go."

"You comin' through here tomorrow?"

"Oh, but I am."

"Check you later."

"Yeah. You too."

When she ended the call, she used the heel of her hand to brush away any traces of her earlier tears and smiled.


	26. With Arms Outstretched

Jim let the word 'closure' roll around in his head for another day or two, before he asked Lee if she thought he needed any. Now he stood in a small but well-kept city park by a faded, wooden picnic table at half past nine at night. The park was empty except for the two of them. In his hands, he carried a crumpled brown paper bag.

A bag that held all of the pieces left of his relationship with Barbara.

A tie set from the last Christmas they shared. A random receipt from their favorite Chinese food restaurant. The pictures from their trip to the beach two summers ago. The ticket stubs from the benefit where Barbara and her army of psychopaths terrorized Lee and Gallivan "saved" the day. The 'Dear Jim' letter she left for him, telling him that when she closed her eyes all she saw was Zsasz and his murderous glare. And a wine glass. It had been the last survivor of a set of four gifted to them at their engagement party. He broke down the glass into pieces beforehand. He didn't know what would happen if he threw a whole wine glass into an open fire, but good sense told him a handful of glass shards were likely to burn a little more easily.

Renting the fire pit had been Lee's idea.

The cold winter wind bit his nose and the tops of his ears while in front of them the small wood fire crackled and popped orange sparks in the air. Jim looked over at Lee. "You ready?"

She huddled next to him, shielding herself from the cold, creating warmth between them. "Whenever you are."

Jim set down the paper bag on the frostbitten grass and slowly, methodically dropped each item into the fire. He'd be lying to himself if he said he didn't feel something. But he didn't have to name it. He'd leave that for Madeline to sort out at their next session.

The tightly-woven fabric of the ties melted apart. The shards of broken glass sparkled at first and then blackened completely with soot. The fire burned through the receipt and the ticket stubs in mere seconds.… They were just that fragile.

Jim smelled a high, sour stench as he dropped the 4X6 photographs into the flames. He watched the smiling images of himself and Barbara melt away like a broken film reel suddenly ending a movie.

Last but not least he held the smooth, no doubt expensive parchment paper on which Barbara wrote him her final letter. Jim pressed his lips together in a thin line and squared his jaw.

_Good-bye, Barbara._

He let go, and the letter fluttered down until it rested upon the embers of the fire. Red and orange trails burned their way through the paper, curling the edges, consuming the words 'Dear Jim', until there was nothing. Until only ashes remained.

Lee leaned into him, holding her gloved hands lovingly against her stomach. She looked up at him when she whispered, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he said.

And underneath that?

Jim Gordon pressed out a long, deep breath, feeling the hot fire and cold wind at the same time. He inhaled the sharp chill of the winter wind and smelled the charcoal and the burned wood of the flames that rose up from his life with Barbara. When he looked up into the embers that floated lazily above the fire, he thought of the butterfly, the one that had been trying to tell him something.

He pulled Lee close and he said, "I'm trying to be."

(x)

Wayne Manor was quiet most of the time, but especially so at night. The sudden, all but complete silence of his home crushed him at first, the stark contrast a constant reminder of what used to be. Now, Bruce settled into the smooth, cool cushions of the leather couch in his father's… in what would to him always be his father's study. He curled up against the arm of the sofa to read the last chapters of Getting Past Your Past.

Bruce decided he didn't care for the name. It felt kitschy and overdone, and it didn't really capture the essence of the writing at all. He wondered if Dr. Scott liked it or didn't. He'd heard somewhere that authors infrequently got to name their books and often it was the publishers who chose their titles. Bruce scanned through the pages carefully but quickly, looking for what the doctor said would be there. Looking for...

MW.

Bruce stopped. His mouth parted open. His gaze snapped back to the top of page.

_...held sessions with MW for six months. A mother and a philanthropist, MW agreed to let me include transcripts from our therapy in this book. But only if I used our closing session and only if I told it exactly as it happened. At first, I wasn't certain how to make the content useful, or more honestly, if I felt comfortable broadcasting the conversation we had. This was, of course, before I understood what book I was writing._

_Shortly after, I realized all too quickly that she was right. It had to be the last session._

Bruce read through the dialogue of their final session, where he learned that his mother had at one point experienced a terrifying nightmare where her home, their home, collapsed and crumbled in the grip of a hurricane. In the dream, by some miracle, she survived, but no matter what she did she couldn't find A., her husband… or her son.

 _Me_ , Bruce thought. _She couldn't find me._

Devastated and heartbroken, his mother searched and searched until she finally stirred herself awake, gasping for breath and terrified. Now, at the end of her treatment, his mother made a new dream. One where she successfully found them all and together they escaped outside while Wayne Manor fell, completely leveled to the ground.

_I asked her, "I wonder why you didn't change the part where the house is destroyed. With lucid dreaming, it's an easy fix."_

_MW shrugged. "It's just a house. All that really matters to me are the people inside."_

_Bruce felt himself swallow reflexively. A heavy lump formed in his throat._

_Though I'm sure she thought I was speaking figuratively, I responded lightly and without thought. "Well, I suppose later you could always rebuild the house."_

_In response, MW placed her hand over her heart. "I only needed to rebuild -this- house."_

_From there, MW spoke about how she wanted to bring her son with her to our next appointment. She'd spoken so often and so fondly of him during our sessions that she felt it only right that I should meet him. Then I understood in an unwelcome burst of clarity the ironic truth. The moment a client is fully comfortable, so much so that they begin to look forward to their sessions much like they would a social engagement, that is also the moment when the goals of therapy have been met._

_There's no good time for bad news, and though ending MW's therapy was very good news, I knew it probably would not be seen that way at first. But MW accepted my careful, delicate termination speech with humor and grace and an effortless honesty that always radiated from her, even in her most devastating moments of treatment._

_She told me, "I often think that if you and I had met outside of this room that we might be friends."_

_She spoke a thought any of us could have, but would just as easily decide not to share. All too often in our minds, the risks of sincerity outweigh the benefits. I felt compelled to respond as best I could in kind. "I've often had that thought myself."_

_MW asked, "Can therapists be friends with their clients afterwards?"_

_There are entire books written on how therapists should answer this very question, ranging in word and purpose, but always labelled under the theme of 'setting boundaries'. Because boundaries are put there to protect. "I think a friendship is something that happens like any other relationship. It happens whether we plan for it or not. However, that doesn't change the fact that the whole point of seeing a therapist is to one day not see them any more."_

_I could see a trace of disappointment in her face, and I felt much more than a trace deep within myself._

_MW joined me in the new direction of what would be our final session. "So… how do we end?"_

_"It's different for everyone," I said, "There's a poem I read that made me think of you. At times during your sessions, I've imagined you holding not just your son and your husband but also all the children of this city in your heart." Because there was just that much room. "The line goes something like 'I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.'"_

_MW arched an eyebrow before she said, "Madeline, you know that that poem is about death… right?"_

_I didn't. I do now. To my credit, I rallied. "Well, grief isn't just about death. Sometimes it's about saying good-bye." I awkwardly joked, "Though I suppose all of us, even after saying good-bye, still have the option of social media stalking."_

_Then she said, "You know… since you brought that up… I should tell you. I didn't just happen upon your name and number in the yellow pages."_

_I'd never asked her how she'd heard of me or why she chose me for her therapist. I was undeniably curious. I am after all, only human. "How did you find your way here?"_

_MW's voice became softer. "I saw your name on a list of referrals for psychologists who specialize in trauma-based cognitive therapy… And I remembered seeing your name about a year ago in the paper."_

_My heart rate kicked up. I didn't need to ask to know, and she saw that._

_MW said, "So I did one of those internet searches that you just mentioned. I learned that after the incident …" It took something out of her to say it. It took something out of me to hear it. "You still worked with offenders. You still stayed at your job at the prison. In fact, according to their website, you worked there up until they shut down their therapy program." MW kept talking, thankfully, while I tried not to hear my heart pound in my ears. "I thought 'wow'. She'll get me."_

_MW started having nightmares after working with Children's Protective Services, walking straight into the abhorrent conditions that breed the atrocities of child abuse. It took me longer to respond than I'm willing to admit here. "You didn't want someone telling you that the solution was to leave your job."_

_MW said simply, "Because it wasn't."_

_This next part I'll write I wish I'd come up with myself. But all credit herein stays with MW._

_She told me, "When I first came here, I thought that I had to be someone brave enough and strong enough to step in and save the lives of those children."_

_I must have looked at her very oddly, as I was unable to predict what she would say next._

_MW said, "Now I've realized. It's important that you are something because you choose to be so, not because you have to be."_

Bruce saw the tears fall down in wide wet drops onto the ink and thin pages of the book before he realized he was crying. Holding the book in his hand, he uttered a strangled, painful sob. He thought, I miss her so much. Even as he had the thought, he realized how useless and stupid it was. His mother was gone, dead and buried, and never coming back. And the only written words she'd left for him to find, he'd just finished reading and would never read for the first time again.

He heard his name spoken from only a few feet away. "... Master Bruce?"

Bruce looked up with wet, red eyes at Alfred, who stood in the doorway. When Alfred saw, he ran to his side. When he reached him, he grabbed him and held him tightly in his arms. Bruce felt his body collapse forward as he cried hard tears into his shoulder.

"It's all right," Alfred whispered. Though nothing was all right, the words still helped because of who spoke them. "I'm here, Bruce. It's going to be all right."


	27. Have You Ever Seen the Rain?

Harvey walked back to the file room and dropped off the final paperwork on the Paycheck Pharmacist file. He sighed out contentedly, feeling some weight lift off of him as he closed that biznatch of a case.

High above the precinct, thunder cleared its throat, asserting its authority. He was about to get up out of there, perhaps congratulate himself with something dark, liquid, and alcoholic, when he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye. He saw Madeline standing on her tiptoes, trying to reach a folder on the top shelf.

He ambled over to her. "All right, short stack." He stretched up easily and got it for her. "Don't hurt yourself."

She accepted the folder. "I would have gotten it."

"Uh-huh."

"I was almost there."

Harvey leaned down to whisper to her. "Little spoiler alert, I think this is the part where you say 'thank you'. Or you trek yourself down to the hardware store and haul back a footstool."

Madeline broke open the file as they walked out of the back room together. She hid it well from the rest of the planet, but he caught that slight limp in her gait. A dark frown settled across his face and disappeared just as quickly. Like hell, he was gonna speak that into existence. He reminded himself that her left leg doubled as a built-in barometer. It really was gonna storm.

Beside him, Madeline said, "I think I'll wait to say thank you until after you give me the background on this next case."

He peeked over her shoulder to try to catch a glimpse at the name on the index tab. Not Theo Gallivan. Not Theo Gallivan. Nope, the name ended in 'ott'. Thank Christ on a bicycle. Maddie thought she was the only one could see things coming up the path. But Harvey saw that shit storm brewing from nine miles out. Little Miss Can't Leave Well Enough Alone unpacks her fine tooth comb, starts running it through the desert of their closed files. The one sure thing you could always bet on in Gotham? What can go wrong will go all the way wrong.

Yeah, so he knew Jim had something, maybe not everything, but something to do with Gallivan's body showing up underneath a white sheet.

… And? Raise your hand if you're surprised, Gotham.

No? Nobody?

Yeah, he thought not. Whether his partner put Gallivan's lights out or not, it didn't register on his Richter scale. No matter who pulled the trigger that bullet had been flyin' straight for that psychopath from a long way back.

But Gotham had a way of dividing down men like Gordon, long division like, to their lowest common denominator. Harvey could appreciate it from time to time, how it evened out the playing field. But it turned his stomach watching the number it did on his partner, how this city drug him down and beat him with experience. Not a lot of people root for the underdog, but nobody likes seeing the underdog take one right in the chest cavity. Not to mention, Jim dealt with the aftermath in only the worst way possible, by turning up the volume and being ten times the pain in the ass he ever was. When just Gordon on his 'quiet storm' setting was enough to make Harvey's day harder.

So things finally start to, you know, maybe halfway settle down. And who should enter stage left? Dr. Madeline Scott, the answer to a question Gotham didn't ask. The minute he saw Maddie sitting pretty up in that conference room, he'd already resigned himself to the fact that it was just a matter of time before she'd get all twisted up in the Gallivan case. Why wouldn't she? It was the one that'd truly turn his precinct crap-side down.

But … no, huh? Even with all the therapy sessions? Digging her way into Gordon's goulash, pulling all sorts of fucked up shit outta that grab bag, lining it up all nice and neat, and asking him to take a good hard look. See you next week. Good luck not going batshit in the meantime. By the way, Harvey, I figure I'll send him back your way right after, maybe just before you take off guns blazing into some perilous life or death type situations. You're welcome. Don't mention it.

By now, she had to know something in the numbers with Gordon didn't add up quite right. Because Maddie was Maddie and Jim was Jim. But she didn't look like a ball of nerves, and Jesus Christ, could that woman wear anxiety. She'd avoid Harvey like the black plague if she knew something that could send his partner straight into an open case with internal affairs.

Or maybe, just maybe she'd evolved after all. Maybe she was learning that her brand of fire and brimstone was only good for getting yourself third degree burns and ruining a perfectly decent haircut.

He glanced down once more to get a better look at the name on the file. Huh, or maybe not. He shook his head. "You know how to pick 'em, doc. I'll give you that much."

"Gotta start somewhere."

"Good luck with that one."

Madeline said, "I don't need luck. I just need a few hours with a copy of my unabridged DSM-V."

"Trust me, whatever's wrong with Oswald, you ain't gonna find it in those psychology books upstairs. We're gonna have to name it after him."

"An Oedipenquin complex?"

Harvey said, "Bird-erline personality disorder? If you can 'cobble' that together." He smirked at her. "Get it? It's a pun."

"Ha. Ha. That and three bucks'll buy you a beer."

He reached his desk and sat down. "Finally, some free advice I can take. I think a drink or five is just what the doctor ordered."

On the coattails of his reply, thunder boomed above them. Madeline flinched at the sudden sound.

Harvey frowned at her. "Still doin' that, huh?"

She sent him a pointed look. "An aversion to electrical storms is an ingrained, evolutionary response to what we logically understand is not a serious threat."

Her cool response drained any concern from his face. "They teach you that in head shrink school or are you quoting directly from your memoirs?"

Madeline leaned against the black metal railing that surrounded his and Gordon's desks. "Don't talk to me about a book you haven't read."

"Don't tell me what to do. And while you're at it, don't talk to me in your high society dame voice neither."

"Oh, is that a quote from your book? What's the title again? 'The Firm Handling of the High Class Temperamental Broad?'" She gasped dramatically. "Oh, wait, nevermind. You never wrote a book."

From downstairs, Alvarez barked a laugh as he overheard the comment. He said loudly, "Somebody better pass Bullock the burn cream."

Harvey called down to him. "Watch it, Britney Spears. Unless you want another office screening of you singing 'Hit Me Baby One More Time'."

Alvarez rolled his eyes. "That was like six years ago."

"The internet never forgets," he shot back. He looked over as Maddie leaned down to steal a pen off his desk. He thought about mouthing off a comment about grand theft larceny and then decided against it. He could already hear her reminding him that possession was nine-tenths the law. Instead, he breathed in deeply as she neared him. He took in the scent of, oh, a touch of makeup, that same shampoo - the one that smelled like strawberries, and something else. Something he couldn't quite pin down, like a song where he could remember the tune but not the lyrics.

As she pulled back and wrote something in the file, Harvey said, "Hey, I need you to answer me something."

"Green," she said, without looking up.

"...The hell are you talkin' about?"

"Virgo. Autumn. Size seven…"

"All right. Calm down, Georgia Brown."

Madeline looked up, giving him her attention.

Harvey asked, "How come my clothes don't smell like yours?"

Her eyes widened as she looked at him from overtop her glasses. "You really want me to answer that here? In front of all your co-workers?"

"Don't act like you don't know what I'm talkin' about. I shell out for that same detergent you always brought around. What are you doin' to yours that I ain't doin' to mine?"

She leaned in, as if sharing a secret. "It's called fabric softener." She said, "Or if that's too much trouble you could just use dryer sheets."

"Yeah," Harvey said. "Those worked great for me. Until I pulled one out of the sleeve of my shirt in the middle of a debriefing." He mimed it. "It was like the end of a magic trick."

Madeline burst out laughing at the image he provided.

"All I was missing was the 'abracadabra.'"

Her laugh tapered off. "Aisle 19. Green bottle. Can't miss it."

"Thanks for the tip." Harvey stood up, shrugged into his leather jacket, and placed his hat atop his head.

She said, "Time to 'knock off'?"

"All that gin ain't gonna drink itself."

"Be seein' you."

Harvey cast her half a stare. "You never know." He turned an about face and began to strut as he walked away from her. "Better drink it in now, doc."

He heard her press out an exasperated sigh from behind him.

"Don't fight it. You hate to see me leave, but you love to see me walk away!"

"Just keep dreaming, Detective Bullock," she called back.

He pointed back to her with both hands, his back still turned. "You got it twisted. I'll see you in your dreams later."

He chuckled to himself as he left the office. Then the chuckle morphed into a curse muttered under his breath as he walked straight into sheets of rain pouring down in buckets from the skies. Harvey held onto the top of his hat as he ran out to his car, thinking back to Maddie inching in all nice and close-like. After all this time, wouldn't you know it. He was thinking about tryin' to take her, and maybe for all he knew she wouldn't mind being taken.

But not tonight. The bartender, a couple of brewskies, and a fifth of gin would keep his glass and his dance card full. He started up his car and pulled out into the streets of Gotham, still smelling her fabric softener from Aisle 19.

(x)

"Patrick."

"Too Irish." He said, "Noah."

"Too… Old Testament."

"Igor."

"... Well, now you're not even trying."

"Lorelei?"

"That one I like." Lee seemed to have a thought and suddenly started laughing.

Jim looked over. "... Did I miss something?"

She got ahold of herself and said, "I was just putting the names altogether. Lorelei Igor Gordon."

He smiled at her. "Might be tough to say correctly. Like Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers…"

Jim Gordon worked on setting up a crib that they'd gotten second hand a few weeks ago. They'd haphazardly stored away the pieces in a back closet, and in doing so they'd managed to misplace the instructions. He had a thought that his life was a lot like putting together deconstructed parts of furniture without instructions. It may never look just like it should in the picture, but eventually, he'd pull it together.

Lee relaxed on the sofa, leafing through a tiny book of baby names made all the more tiny by the way she perched it atop her ever-growing baby bump. She said, "What about… Robin?"

As he searched through a packet of nuts and bolts, he repeated, "Robin. For a girl or a boy?"

"Beats me. Either, I guess." Lee sighed out serenely in thought before she said. "I know we've been calling the baby 'her' but… what would you rather it was?"

Jim bought himself some time. "... Rather than what?" He worked on attaching short wooden posts across the bottom of the crib. "I'd rather it was a happy, healthy child."

Lee sent him an impish stare from across the room. "I already know," she said, turning another page in the book. "You may as well just tell me."

He let out a sigh between his teeth, as he continued to construct the crib. And why shouldn't he hope for a boy? He imagined a boy would … better survive this city. Though he had to admit, the way he watched Lee take on Gotham might be just enough to change his thinking on that score. He walked over to her and knelt down beside her. "As long as the baby looks like you?" He ran his hand through her hair. "That's all I care about."

Lee raised her eyebrows, impressed. "That's a … good line."

Jim walked back over to the crib and stood it up on its four solid legs. He presented it to Lee. "What do you think?"

She stood up carefully, setting aside the book of baby names. "I think little Lorelei Igor Gordon's gonna love it."

"Just promise me you won't write that on the birth certificate."

She was about to say something, but then her stomach spoke up first, with a loud, insistent growl. "Oh, what's that?" She looked down and held her belly, as if speaking directly to their child. "You want … Chop Suey from down the street? What an excellent idea. That sounds delicious."

Jim glanced out the living room window to see fat raindrops pattering heavily against the glass pane. "Regular or high octane?"

"Ugh, as mild as they can make it, please. Pregnancy they name is heartburn." Lee glanced over at the clock as Jim threw on his raincoat. "Oh, wait, when do they close? You don't think it's too late, do you?"

Jim watched Lee standing there in her maternity tank top and old gray sweats, her hair sloppily pulled back in a lazy ponytail. How she had the look of a woman who knows she is strong in mind, body, and soul and is no longer self-conscious about it. In that moment, she'd never looked so beautiful.

Jim walked up to her and kissed her deeply. She blinked, pleasantly surprised, as he pulled back and said, "It's never too late."

Outside the rain poured down from the sky and puddled on the streets of Gotham, but inside the falling rain was a safe, secret sound closing them in together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost didn't write this last chapter, but when I finished up the story, I turned to Harvey and went, "You have anything you want to add in here?" Turned out (as usual) he had plenty to say.
> 
> I can't thank you all enough for taking this ride with me. I've had an excellent time writing this. To my surprise, it's led to a romance/crime backstory that I'll start posting in another couple weeks. Look for the title "Devil's Jump". Thanks as always for the love, reviews, and good vibes, everyone!


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